


Monsters

by NK (NKfloofiepoof)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Body Horror, Drama, Gen, Horror, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKfloofiepoof/pseuds/NK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were a myth. They were the monsters of legend, mentioned only in story and encountered only in nightmares. But nightmares can become reality, and Ratchet has found himself living in one.</p><p>Due to the sensitive nature of many of the reveals and plot twists, I choose not to warn as almost any warning I can give would spoil the story. About the only two things I can warn for are <b>non-con</b> (not shown but a major part of the story) and <b>psychological/body horror</b>; everything else, I can only cover under <b>dark themes</b>. If you have notable squicks or triggers, please tread with caution and <b>read at your own discretion</b>.</p><p>Massive thanks to LadyDragon76 for betaing, for her input, for her encouragement, for her help with the summary - for everything. This would not have been written without her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In memory of my mother who fought long and hard these last four and a half years against the monster inside her. She supported and encouraged me in everything I did, even when all I wanted to do was write about fictional robots from space. May she finally rest peacefully in Primus' arms.
> 
> —
> 
> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **February 16, 2016:** To everyone who read this in the past: I have rearranged the order of chapters to one I feel provides a better, more organic narrative, preserving the mystery for longer than when this was originally posted. This is partly because it needed to be done a long time ago, but it's also because I now have an absolutely gorgeous book cover to go with it, drawn by the amazingly talented [Shibara](http://shibara.tumblr.com/).

  
_cover image by[Shibara](http://shibara.tumblr.com/post/139387264344/)_  


* * *

The scorched grass below him swayed and distorted in his vision which clouded with error after error on his HUD, and a wave of nausea kept him down as pain shot through his torso, starting from his cracked windshield and spreading through his chest and abdomen where the other mech had impacted with him. One red hand pressed against the heavily dented plating underneath his chest, and he wavered unsteadily on his knees and remaining hand. His audio receptors seemed to be malfunctioning - the sounds of battle seemed much farther away than he knew they were, and though he knew someone was calling his name, he could not bring himself to look up from the ground.

As far as hits went, Ratchet knew he had endured far worse - what was different? How had the other Autobot collided with him to cause such pain—

His hand was wet. The medic's first fear was that his fuel tank had ruptured, and he pulled his trembling hand away from his abdomen to confirm only to stare blankly at the fluids coating it. Energon was not purple. What—

Another wave of nausea hit him with the force of a rogue Dinobot, and Ratchet felt something inside him _pop_. Fluids rushed into his systems, over his circuitry, and began to leak out of gaps in his plating in pale purple and silver rivulets. His spark stuttered in its chamber and sent a chill through him. He tried to cry out, but his vocalizer would not work. He barely heard his name being called once more and only finally managed to lift his head when black hands came into his field of vision.

The other mech knelt before him, his plating riddled with cracks and deep dents, one leg leaking badly from a split fuel line, and his engine crushed from Devastator's grip. Peeled up from just behind his wheel well near his shoulder was a partially broken, multi-jointed rod which tapered to a sharp point. Ratchet stared at him, but he barely noticed the other mech's damage. He was saying something, asking if Ratchet was okay, asking what was wrong with him, but the white mech could not hear him. Hearing was not important. What was important was what he _saw_.

The same color - the same _shape_ \- just micrometers from Ratchet's face, the medic saw the exact same optics which had plagued his recharge for ten orns. Micrometers from him, Ratchet saw a segmented rod pulled up from the other mech's frame, forced from wherever it was hidden before Devastator tried to crush him. It was sharp and tapered, just like a claw, a claw an Autobot _should not have_ , and all Ratchet could do was stare in growing terror that one of his attackers was directly in front of him, close enough to touch him again.

His spark surged, and his plating began to rattle as a protoform-deep tremble coursed through his body. His HUD was still flooded with errors, but they went unheeded - all he could see were those optics as his spark stuttered and his systems spiraled into shock. He barely registered as the other Autobot looked down at the substance leaking from Ratchet's interior and then looked back up. He barely registered the mech's own dawning realization and horror. All Ratchet could think was that he needed to run, needed to _flee_ , needed to get as far away from this monster as he could, but he was frozen in place, trembling and leaking and unable to speak.

All Ratchet could manage was a weak, choked " _You—_ " before darkness claimed him.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_10 days earlier_ **

**_Day 0 - 01:32  
+12 minutes, 52 seconds after the attack_ **

The darkened orange corridors of the _Ark_ distorted and swam in front of him as he stumbled through, searching for his destination but no longer quite certain exactly where it was or how far he still had left to walk. Static formed a ring around his peripheral vision and made the hallway before him seem much longer and darker, more like a foreboding, endless tunnel than the normally brightly lit and almost too cheerfully colored path to the _Ark_ medbay. Several times, he nearly fell to his knees after a wave of dizziness, and the only reason he managed to prevent himself from doing so was by keeping one hand firmly pressed against the wall next to him, using it as a guide and an anchor. As long as he kept his hand on the wall, he could be assured the hallway before him was not truly flipping upside down or swaying back and forth.

 _One foot in front of the other,_ he inwardly chanted over and over in an attempt to keep himself calm and focused. _Just keep your feet going forward, Ratchet. Almost there. I **must** be nearly there..._

Ratchet knew he had reached the medbay not by recognizing the door but simply by falling into the room when his hand slid from the wall to the doors which automatically opened at his presence. Ratchet landed hard on one knee and would have continued down all the way had he not braced himself with one hand and diverted the rest of his momentum to his legs to settle heavily on one red hip. He lifted his head and tried to look around the infirmary, but he had to shut off his optics to fight back a wave of nausea as the once familiar medbay swayed and distorted around him. He took a few deep, rattling ventilations before trying again - that was...a little better. Not much, though.

The medbay was dark and empty. The sight, no matter how it swam around him, was supposed to be comforting, but now, it only filled him with dread on top of the feelings of sickness and confusion already flooding him. He struggled to understand what was happening only to find himself focused instead on why he wanted to be in the infirmary in the first place. Ratchet's pale blue gaze swept slowly over the swimming room again, and it locked onto his target as soon as his optics found it: the private diagnosis suite. _That_ was why he wanted to be here.

Refocused, Ratchet forced himself onto his hands and knees and reached up to use an exam table to help himself to his feet. His knees trembled underneath him, but he managed not to drop again through pure determination. _One foot at a time,_ he thought. _Step, re-balance, step..._ He locked the cables and tiny gears in his neck to keep himself walking forward. He knew the doorway to his destination was not actually sliding along the wall, it was not moving up to the ceiling, it was not changing shapes, and one door was not actually two - or three. If he just kept walking forward without deviating from his path... _yes_! Ratchet clutched the frame as tightly as his weakened grip could manage once the door opened automatically. He swore when the lights immediately activated at his presence and was quick to vocally command them to dim once more.

"T...Ten percent maximum luminosity," Ratchet rasped in a voice that hardly sounded like his, and the lights mercifully darkened, leaving him in a comforting twilight. Even if the light had not hurt his optics, the darkness somehow _felt_ more comforting. Once he managed to find the door controls and locked the entrance behind him, Ratchet allowed himself to drop to the floor once more. He leaned heavily against the wall and pulled labored, desperate breaths through his ventilation system as he stared at the diagnostic berth and its matching console and willed them to quit moving around.

_Focus...focus..._

Focusing was an uphill climb with rusted axles. Nausea and panic and confusion choked him from all sides. He could not understand why he felt this way, why his systems were in such turmoil. He knew something had happened, but he had no idea what. The harder Ratchet tried to think of the events before the medbay corridor, the more his fuel tank churned, his processor pounded, and his spark spasmed in terror. Ratchet knew he should have called the medic on duty - Hoist had not been present in the main medbay which meant he was likely in the small office at the front catching a quick power-recharge. With First Aid deployed across the country with the other Protectobots, the medbay was understaffed, leaving the on-duty medics with ten breems of power-recharge time allotted per duty shift. Hoist's communicator was still active; he could be awakened at any time in case of an emergency. Ratchet knew he should contact him, awaken him, get Hoist to examine him and maybe determine what happened, but again, Ratchet's spark squeezed in terror at the mere thought. No - he needed to find out what was wrong on his own if possible. If it was nothing more than a bad defrag or code dump, then he would have awakened and scared Hoist for nothing.

Ratchet kept his gaze pinned to the diagnostics console and dared not look away as if it was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed by the frightening unknown. _Focus... **focus**!_ He slowly pushed himself forward away from the wall until he was on his hands and knees once more. Then, carefully, he brought one leg forward to firmly plant his foot on the floor and pushed down on his knee with both hands to give himself leverage to stand. Once standing, Ratchet paused to give himself time to ensure he was not simply going to fall again. After two kliks which seemed to last an eternity, he slowly closed the distance to the exam berth and pulled himself onto it.

It took a klik, but once it detected his weight and presence, the console automatically activated and began the scanning process. Two arms folded out of the side of the beth and arced over Ratchet to thread together and form a semi-circle around him. The scanning arms moved up to his head, and the berth's surface activated as well. A thin, blue line of light shined under him as a similar light shined from the scanning arms, and slowly, the light moved down his body from his head to his feet. Ratchet offlined his optics to keep the light from hurting them. Finally, he felt some of the fear and panic begin to ebb - in a few more kliks, a breem at most, he would have answers. All he needed to do now was wait for the diagnostic to complete its three scans - once for plating, once for internal circuitry, wiring, and piping, and once for his base protoform. If none of the scans showed anything unusual, he would perform a toxin analysis, but he hoped he would not have to make his way to that section of the infirmary.

As he lay waiting, Ratchet moved his attention inward to finally take stock of his condition insofar as he could determine from his symptoms. The nausea was beginning to ebb as well now that he was horizontal, and he no longer felt he was in danger of purging. However, there was still something...off inside. He thought at first it was his still-unsettled fuel tank, but the odd feeling was positioned too high to be that. It seemed to be just below his spark casing, as if there was a foreign object inside him.

Ratchet's optics flared online again to stare in panic at the ceiling. There _was_ a foreign object in his systems - he could definitely feel it now that he noticed it. But what _was_ it? Fear renewed, he tried once more to think of the last few cycles - where had he come from before his first memory in the hallway? What had _happened_ to him? All attempts to recall events immediately before the corridor were met with pain in his processor and a wave of renewed nausea. He tried to delve further, picking through lines of code and memory threads until he finally found a memory which was clear and did not cause an adverse reaction: he had been driving outside the _Ark_. He could not recharge and had gone on a nighttime drive to clear his processor and exhaust himself so he could fall offline. It was nothing unusual as far as Ratchet's behavior went - he often had difficulties winding down enough to rest, especially after an orn filled with surgeries. Nothing untoward had ever happened as he rarely ventured out of sight of Mount St. Hilary, just far enough to really work his struts and warm his tires. 

Ratchet remembered he had been just another mile or so from returning to the _Ark_ and then...nothing. What had happened? Was he attacked?

Panic grew - if he had been attacked by Decepticons while he was out and alone, that could possibly explain everything. He could have been drugged. Primus - what if the foreign object was a bomb? Wait - no. If it was a bomb, the diagnostic machine would have alerted him with the first scan. It was designed to detect all known incendiary compounds and devices the Decepticons tended to use, both Cybertronian and Earthen. But if it was not a bomb, then what was it? Perhaps a larger than normal tracker, or maybe even a recording device? Ratchet struggled to keep his head still for the last scan and not stare at the console's screen. He needed to know what was inside him and needed it _out_. Again, he thought about awakening Hoist, and again, he told himself "no" - it may have been something as simple as a rock caught in his undercarriage during his last transformation. Such a thing had never happened to _him_ , but it _had_ occurred with some other Autobots, so the notion was not out of the realm of possibility. Hoist needed his rest and did not need Ratchet to disturb him for something which may have ultimately been nothing.

Finally, the console chimed the completion of its scans, and Ratchet carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position, moving slowly to avoid renewing his dizziness. It seemed being on his back for a breem was what he needed. While his processor was still not exactly _clear_ , his fuel tank had ceased roiling, and the room was not swimming nearly as much as before. Other than a little leftover static at his peripheral vision, he seemed to be better. Still, Ratchet moved slowly just in case. It would be counterproductive to be careless and undo his current progress. Plus, he did not trust his legs to fully support his weight yet, so he slowly swung his legs around to dangle off the edge of the exam berth and reached for the screen attached to the side bar of the berth which was linked to the diagnostic console.

What...was he looking at? The foreign body was invisible on the plating and protoform scans but highly visible on the internal image, and it looked nothing like any of his fears. It was nestled just under his spark chamber and in front of his fuel tank. Thin wires and pipes connected it to his own and were wrapped around, possibly even threaded directly into, his primary and secondary power cables and fuel lines. According to the internals image, it was filled with energon and...something else, something the computer could not identify. It was not taking up _too_ much room, about half again the size of his fist, but it had clearly moved aside the wires, piping, and circuitry which were _supposed_ to be in that area. To Ratchet, the oddest trait was its shape: it was round, almost spherical, but tapered just slightly at the bottom, almost imperceptibly so. For all appearances, it...looked like an egg of some sort.

Had he been on an unknown, organic planet, Ratchet may have assumed some alien lifeform decided to use him for an incubator - that _had_ happened before, though not to him. Sideswipe still had not lived it down. However, Ratchet knew nothing existed on Earth which was capable of such a thing, certainly nothing which could lay an egg _this_ size. Even if there _was_ such a creature on Earth, that did not explain the fact that it was filled with energon. It had to be something else - it _had_ to be.

Alarm growing, Ratchet activated the touchscreen and typed in a few commands as quickly as he could with fingers trembling more with every passing nanoklik. It took a few tries, but he finally managed to modify the screen to display himself with its forward-facing camera. The first things he noticed were the numerous scratches marring the paint on his abdominal and pelvic plating, paint removed in large scrapes around his sides as if some massive claw had held him in place. He had not been able to see those areas unaided given his chest's design, and seeing it now only made his rising panic worse. Quickly, Ratchet angled the feed down and sent the command to his plating to retract. He had to see what he was carrying for himself because the image on his schematic _did not make sense_.

It was a struggle to keep his ventilations slow as each plate shifted and moved aside to expose his interior systems. Each plate and layer did not retract as smoothly as it should, most of it gummed by or slick with a silver, sticky substance he did not recognize. The fact that he did not recognize it was possibly the most alarming thing yet, and Ratchet feared that this was still not the worst part. When the last sticky plate slid aside and Ratchet finally had an unobstructed view inside his abdomen, he clapped one hand over his mouth to quell the urge to purge his tank.

Due to the shape of his chest, he could only see the bottommost quarter of the obstruction, but that was enough for utter terror to squeeze his spark. What he could see glowed faintly, shining from within. It was translucent blue and filled with a mixture of liquid energon and the thicker, silver substance which covered his internals, the energon tinted purple by the obstruction's blue exterior. The silver substance swirled in the energon and seemed to move on its own in a way that finally confirmed to him the only thing it could possibly be: nanites. There was really nothing else the object _could_ be but some sort of egg - an egg filled with energon, perhaps his _own_ energon, nanites, and connected with thin, silicone feelers to his vital power and fuel lines. Each feeler disappeared into the casing of the wire or line to which it was attached, feeding it from Ratchet's own systems, and around it, the circuitry, wires, and pipes were covered in superficial damage, scrapes which indicated the forced implantation of the...the egg.

No. No - it could not be an egg. It _could not_. There _had_ to be another explanation for this, a _better_ explanation - there simply _had_ to.

Ratchet almost violently pushed the screen away from him, rejecting the truth it showed. He pushed himself from the exam berth and nearly fell forward from the momentum before he gripped the console to stop himself. Without thinking, he turned to the console and erased everything it just recorded, purging the new schematic and video feed from its hard drive. It was _wrong_ , he told himself. It was best if no one knew about it but him until he could find an explanation which _made sense_. Once he was satisfied all traces had been erased, Ratchet made his way stumbling out of the private suite and across the infirmary to his private quarters tucked in the back corner. One shaking red hand punched in his code as quickly as he could and locked the door behind him.

The berth beckoned him as exhaustion clawed at his fright-weakened systems, but rather than collapsing onto it, Ratchet nearly fell into the chair at his desk as he activated his personal console. The nanoklik it was active, he began to search his medical database. If there was any other explanation to be had, it would be in the database, even if it was something Ratchet had long forgotten about since his days in the Iaconian Medical Academy or some terrible cybernetic weapon he had forgotten about since his courses at the Iaconian War Academy after the war began. Focused, Ratchet typed all of his symptoms - corrupted memory files, fuel rejection, distorted visual feed, nanite solution on plating, and...foreign body comprised of rubber or silicone material - and hit "Search".

To his dismay, there was only one immediate result, and it was the one he refused to believe. He shook his head in denial even as he began to tremble anew. He tried eliminating the last search term, hoping he had, perhaps, used the wrong description or been too specific. This brought three results, but the initial result was still one of them, and neither of the other two ailments matched what he saw inside himself earlier. Desperate, Ratchet tried rewording the description, but after three more attempts, one of which landed zero results, he could finally deny it no longer and stared in growing dread at his diagnosis.

     >> **Cuculid Pod**

Cuculids were a subtype of Cybertronian which many felt did not exist. There had been no proof as to their existence in countless vorns, ever since the start of the Golden Age. They were the thing of myths and horror stories told to fresh-forged mechs newly Sparked by Vector Sigma to teach them to watch their backs and avoid the shadows. While they may have existed at some point before Ratchet was Sparked, there was no proof _anywhere_ to be found that they remained as anything more than a footnote in Cybertronian history. Indeed, the article, once Ratchet gathered the courage to open it, only mentioned cuculids in past tense, citing that they had been driven off of Cybertron or outright eradicated in the Dark Age following Quintesson rule which preceded the Golden Age. For all appearances and information available, they should not exist beyond nightmares anymore, yet Ratchet was sitting in his office very much awake and undoubtedly carrying a cuculid pod.

The "article", if it could be called that, held no pictures and consisted of merely a bulleted list of facts, none of which helped to quell the fear choking him.

     >> _Cuculids could only procreate via forced impregnation of a non-cuculid mech_  
      >> _Cuculids captured and hypnotized living mechs to use as hosts for their offspring_  
      >> _Cuculids always traveled in pairs_  
      >> _The sparks of cuculid hosts were modified during the implantation phase, conditioning the host to care for the offspring and keep its origins secret_  
      >> _Cuculids no longer exist on Cybertron; last known sighted pair was outside Crystal City, circa—_

Ratchet shut off the monitor before he finished reading the last point - the last "fact" which, obviously, was no fact - and leaned heavily on his desk, rubbing his face wearily. "Okay...okay," he whispered to himself, using the sound of his voice as an anchor. If he could hear himself, then he was not simply having a horrible nightmare. This terrible truth was _reality_. "Okay," he repeated. "Panicking isn't going to help. There has to be a way to fix this. Think, Ratchet - _think_." He pulled in a few long, slow ventilations to cool his fright-overheated systems and dimmed his optics so he could concentrate on calming himself, though even as he tried, he kept thinking back to the article. Outside the bullet points, it provided very little information; it did not even list _how_ these mechs accomplished their goal. How had they managed to capture Ratchet and corrupt his memory files? How had they then implanted their...their pod or egg inside him? The article provided no answers, and Ratchet could not remember to answer for himself.

In an attempt to keep himself from panicking anew, Ratchet folded his hands together on the desk and stared at them as he tried to reconstruct the events of the last few cycles as best he could. He could not recharge, so he had left to drive around the Mount St. Hilary area in order to tire himself. He had only made a few circles around the volcano before he moved to return. He had the _Ark_ in sight, saw movement just outside the hangar, and... Ratchet swore at the painful throb in his processor as he tried to force it to access the damaged memory. Flashes of color flooded his vision coupled with pain tearing through his head and fear clutching his spark, growing worse and worse the closer he came to successfully accessing the memory—

Ratchet jolted awake and stared around his quarters in alarm. He was slumped over his desk, on his way to sliding out of his chair and onto the floor. He felt cold from his plating to the deepest section of his systems, as if he had been frozen solid and thawed, but a quick check to his environmental sensors told him the temperature in the room had not changed even one degree. What had—

     >> _The sparks of cuculid hosts were modified during the implantation phase . . ._

 _Smelt_! A quick self-diagnostic of his systems confirmed it - Ratchet's spark had actually ceased energy output for a few nanokliks to halt his attempts at forcing himself to remember. His _own spark_ had rebelled against him. Shuddering anew, Ratchet rubbed his face once more and reluctantly conceded defeat - he was not about to try that again lest his spark not recover a second time. His last clear memory was seeing movement near the hangar of the _Ark_ , what had looked like two mechs—

No.

Ratchet's fuel tank lurched, and he had to clap a hand over his mouth to quell the sudden, overwhelming need to purge. It had not occurred to him to wonder before, but now he could not think of anything else. In order for him to have been implanted with a cuculid pod, he had to have been captured _by_ a cuculid. There was still a vague possibility that he had been ambushed by Decepticons, but that possibility paled next to the much more likely chance that he had been attacked by a fellow Autobot. It was further confirmed by the one scrap of memory he had been able to recover before he had blacked out: a pair of mesmerizing blue optics staring closely into his own. No Decepticon stationed on Earth had blue optics.

     >> _Cuculids always traveled in pairs_

Ratchet's spark quailed in betrayal. Two of his comrades - two of his _friends_ \- had attacked him. Two mechs he had fought alongside and repaired countless times throughout their long war were actually monsters from Cybertron's darkest depths. Two mechs he trusted with his life had implanted him with a monster just like them. They had not only betrayed Ratchet - they had betrayed _all_ of the Autobots with their deception. They had hidden among the Autobots for...Primus, Ratchet did not even want to _think_ how long. Certainly since before the _Ark_ launched...or maybe not? Some mechs had joined after their awakening on Earth, transferred from Cybertron to aid the Earthbound contingent.

Ratchet's hands clenched into fists. As horrified and sickened and betrayed as he felt, he could not let himself lose sight of the even more alarming truth: if they attacked once, they would do it again, and the _Ark_ was filled with potential "hosts". There had to be a way to warn his fellow Autobots - his _true_ comrades. There had to be a way to flush out the monsters and drive them away. Ratchet reached over to hit his comm system and awaken Hoist only to have his hand freeze over the button as fear gripped him once more.

What if Hoist was one of them? He and Grapple were nearly inseparable, had been for as long as Ratchet could remember, and Ratchet knew he had not exactly been quiet when he stumbled into the medbay earlier. Logically, even in his power-recharge cycle, Hoist probably _should_ have been awakened at some point if only to poke his head out and make sure everything was okay. What if he had not because he already _knew_ who had been making noise and why?

Ratchet clenched his hand into a fist and jerked it away from the console as if it had burned him. Wait - no...Hoist had a visor, not optics, and Ratchet now clearly remembered blue _optics_ staring into his. That lone sliver of memory was free of static now, and even as nothing but a memory, those optics seemed to burn into him. _Optics_ , not a visor...but _Grapple_ had optics. It could have been his Ratchet saw. Primus, he hoped Hoist, one of _his_ medics, was not one of the beasts who had attacked him, but no - he could not risk it.

First Aid! Ratchet _knew_ he was not involved, him or any of the other Protectobots. They were all dispatched to the East coast to aid in hurricane relief. They had been gone for three orns and were not due back for at least another two. Ratchet could confide in him - Ratchet could _trust_ him.

< _'Aid, this is Ratchet - come in._ >

It took a few kliks, but Ratchet finally received a murky response, < _Ratchet? Is everything okay?_ >

< _Sorry, 'Aid - were you in recharge?_ > Ratchet asked, surprised with how steady his voice was. He dimmed his optics as a wave of calm finally smoothed over him. He felt a little guilty for waking First Aid, but still, he felt better knowing he was that much closer to having some support through his frightening ordeal.

< _Yes, but that's fine - what's wrong?_ >

< _Nothing's wrong._ > Wait...what? < _I just realized I never got an updated report from you today. I assume you were busy helping with the relief effort. Did anything unforeseen happen?_ > No no no - that was _not_ what he wanted to say!

< _Oh - I'm sorry!_ > First Aid said sheepishly. < _Yes, we were very busy today. We got to rescue trapped pets from many humans' flooded houses. I have cat hair in places I prefer not to think about, and it's **still** wet. We're progressing on schedule, though._ >

< _Glad to hear it - well, not about the cat hair,_ > Ratchet responded, red hands clenched into fists and his face locked in an expression of disbelief and terror which was not reflected in his otherwise jovial voice. Why was he not saying what he wanted to? 'First Aid, I've been attacked. Please look up cuculids on the nearest Cybertronian medical database and meet with me the nanoklik you return to base so we can work together to find them.' _That_ was what he was supposed to be saying. Why was it not coming out, and _why_ did he sound so _relaxed_?!  < _I'll let you get back to recharge since I'm sure tomorrow won't be any less busy for you. Make sure you pass on your full report for today to Hoist at your first convenience; couple it with tomorrow's if you don't get a chance before._ >

< _Yes, sir! I'm sorry again about forgetting, but thank you for checking on us. Is there anything else I can do for you?_ >

 _Yes,_ Ratchet thought frantically. _**Help me!**_ Instead, however, he responded against his will,  < _No, nothing I can think of. Just let us know if you need any additional help, alright? Ratchet, out._ >

< _Will do, sir! First Aid, out!_ >

As soon as the connection severed, Ratchet nearly slumped over his desk once more, his vents roaring to quell the utter terror clawing at him. That was _not_ what he had planned to happen. Instead of confiding in First Aid and finding the support he was desperately seeking, it had been as if he was trapped inside his own body while someone else was in control. What—

     >> _. . . conditioning the host to care for the offspring and keep its origins secret_

'Keep its origins secret.'

Primus.

Ratchet's vents hitched, fear and helplessness crushing him. He struggled for another idea, _any_ other idea. If he was silenced from speaking to another mech about his situation, how was he to find a way to rectify it?

Wheeljack. The engineer was Ratchet's oldest and closest friend. They had gone to the Iaconian Academy together, helped one another with their assignments, kept in touch after graduation, and even joined the Autobots together. They had been nearly inseparable for as long as Ratchet could remember. There was no one he trusted more and no one who understood him more than Wheeljack. Even if he could not _speak_ about his horrifying condition, Ratchet _knew_ Wheeljack would be able to discern that _something_ was wrong with him. He would investigate and would not rest until he unraveled the mystery.

Ratchet was certain he would not be able to transmit his distress, but maybe he could just entice Wheeljack into joining him for a cube. Surely he would see something was wrong right away, especially given the late cycle. Ratchet _never_ asked him over this late. The medic opened a channel on his communicator with the intention of calling his friend to him only to stop himself.

What if one or both of the cuculid pair realized what he was trying to do? If they targeted Ratchet specifically, surely they knew how close he and Wheeljack were. The depth of their friendship was not a secret - even the Decepticons knew what they meant to one another as evidenced by the number of times they tried to use it against them. Perhaps Ratchet's attackers also thought that Wheeljack would be able to see through the facade they coerced into his spark. Would they hurt the small engineer to keep themselves safe? The mere thought of his best friend being hurt because of him and his horrible situation made Ratchet's fuel tank churn anew. Primus - what if they _killed_ the engineer to keep him silent? No - he could not risk his friend in that way. He closed the connection again and stared down at his hands.

He was alone.

This situation truly was straight out of a nightmare. He had no idea who the cuculid pair may have been - there were far too many possibilities. However, even if he _could_ figure it out, how was he to warn anyone before another Autobot shared in his fate? Who knew how many Autobots would be victimized before the pair was caught? Primus - what if Ratchet was not even the first one? If there were other victims on board the _Ark_ , was there any way to tell? Was there any way to contact or communicate with them so they could at least support one another? And Primus, above all else, what was he to do with this...this _thing_ growing inside him? Mechkind - _normal_ mechkind - did not reproduce this way; before the war, they built frames, already adult or not, and had a spark installed either by Vector Sigma or by a loving pair of Cybertronians who had exchanged enough spark energy to ignite a new spark. If the new mech was built in a small frame, his spark was routinely transferred to upgraded bodies until he was an adult. Nothing like this... _egg_ he now carried. How was he to hide it when it...came time to hatch?

All of these questions and more flooded him and weighed heavier and heavier upon him even as he left his desk and curled into the darkest corner of his quarters.

It was late into the day shift before Ratchet finally found the courage to move.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_07:39  
+5 hours, 27 minutes_ **

It was easy to adjust the medbay duty roster in a way that no one would notice the change. After all, Ratchet was the final authority when it came to which medic was on duty and when. No one ever noticed if his name was missing from the roster unless there was an appointment specifically with him, which was not the case for several more orns. For minor things, most Autobots tended to schedule appointments with Hoist or First Aid, leaving Ratchet free for more complicated repairs and surgeries. Granted, neither was an option currently - First Aid was not due back from the East coast for another two orns at minimum, and Hoist had been on-duty all night and needed several cycles of uninterrupted rest to recuperate.

Thankfully, the Autobots were not hurting for medics. All Ratchet had to do was remove his own name and replace himself with Swoop and Wheeljack with a flag to use the morning appointments as training exercises for the junior medic. Ratchet knew none of the first half-orn's scheduled repairs were beyond Swoop's capabilities now that the large Dinobot's training had progressed from plating and joints to wires and piping, and in addition to the extra training, the change in schedule had the added benefit of bolstering Swoop's confidence and sense of self-worth.

While he was certainly capable of - and happy to - cause chaos and Decepticon destruction with the rest of his large brethren, the avian Dinobot had never been content with being simply another soldier. As he developed in personality and intelligence over the years of the Autobots' residence on Earth, Ratchet and Wheeljack both noticed when his personality began to kindle in the right areas to create the possibility that Swoop would make a compassionate medic, and no Autobot, not even those who most vocally disapproved of the Dinobots' creation and presence, was going to turn down the vital addition of another medic to the fold at the time, before the addition of First Aid. Swoop learned more slowly than the average mech, certainly more slowly than First Aid who had been Sparked to be a medic specifically by Vector Sigma at the Autobots' behest, and Swoop's much larger hands certainly proved to be an obstacle for treating some patients, but the Dinobot had no problem putting his knowledge to practice once he committed the training to memory.

As such, he was years behind First Aid in training despite starting it before the Protectobot and was constantly clamoring for more slots on the medbay roster for lessons and practice. Thus, no one ever thought much of it when Ratchet's name was missing. It usually meant he was doing inventory or was testing or making repairs to medical equipment.

Both of which he would be sure to do as soon as he could find the courage to leave his quarters. Or at least leave his wash rack.

One of the many benefits of the _Ark_ crashing into the side of a volcano was the fact that the Autobots never feared running out of hot water, even with Ratchet standing under the spray for the last several cycles. Despite the volcano's dormant status, the ambient temperature of the surrounding rocks was still more than hot enough to keep water and cleanser from ever growing cold, no matter the amount used. Of course, when they actually _wanted_ cold water, they had a little problem getting it, but that was not what Ratchet wanted now. The combination of cleanser, solvents, and water was set to the highest temperature which would not destroy surface repair nanites, and it was still not hot enough to help Ratchet feel _clean_. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever feel clean again.

He had not been able to fall offline for a nanoklik the entire night, his processor too turmoiled with emotion and an imagination running away from him. Every klik of the night into the morning had been spent equally trying and trying _not_ to think about what had happened to him and what it meant and what little he could do about it and how helpless he was to prevent it from happening to anyone else. He tried not to think about how his attackers must have subdued him or how whatever they did to him worked to implant the egg inside him, but he could think of nothing else. He did not want to know how they did it, but he could not keep himself from inspecting his marred paint and scratched plating as he stood under the spray of his wash rack and wondered what they did to him beyond the obvious.

Ratchet was not a vain mech. His white paint was never pristine and usually bore a number of nicks, scuffs, scrapes, dull areas, and scratches from varying sources. He had his self-repair systems programmed to deploy his color nanites to fill in the gaps as the last priority; as such, the specialized nanites only performed their task whenever his self-repair systems made it to the bottom of his diagnostic queue. Since the Autobots as a whole were still in active warfare, it was not often that his diagnostic queue made it that far, and even when it did, the patched sections of paint remained somewhat noticeable without a good buff or wax, neither of which Ratchet tended to make the time for if he did not already lack more important obligations.

The medic's inattention to his own detailing drove both Sunstreaker and Tracks up the wall. They felt it was "criminal" that he allowed such glaring flaws on his paint, especially since he was primarily white. The first time he had wandered the _Ark_ with a particularly glaring section of paint all but completely stripped, Ratchet had thought Sunstreaker was going to glitch. As far as the golden frontliner was concerned, white paint should always be kept pristine and flawless, and he had immediately made it his life's goal to convince Ratchet of that importance by giving him many - by now, countless - tins of wax and piles of buffing pads and even a giant, steam-proof mirror meant to be installed in Ratchet's wash rack.

Ratchet, denying how much Sunstreaker's horror amused him, said he was being patently ridiculous but decided it did not hurt to humor him, especially when Tracks was transferred to the _Ark_ and Ratchet's detailing became the one thing upon which the two mechs could agree. He eventually had to put a stop to the piles and piles of waxes, polishes, and specialized rags he kept finding in his office and quarters, and the only way to stop the two mechs on a quest had been to promise he would actually _use_ their gifts. He did so only rarely, usually just to even out his hue after color nanites had replaced damaged paint, but he still did so in order to keep the pair off his back. The one thing he had refused to use, however, had been the enormous mirror. To install it meant Sunstreaker won, and Ratchet absolutely refused to admit that, so the mirror had stayed hidden under his berth, unused, and far away from the wash rack.

Until today.

As he stood under the scalding spray, Ratchet inspected himself in the mirror and ran faintly trembling red fingers over each mark his attackers had left on his frame. Most were on his sides and around his waist, long lines of paint scraped away, shallow gouges left behind in his plating. The scrapes were too large and too spread out to be from fingers, as far as he was aware. The deeper marks on his plating looked more like they were made with claws which only confused him more. No Autobot had claws except Steeljaw, and the idea of Steeljaw attacking him would have been laughable if Ratchet were in a laughing mood. Claws were generally something found on Decepticons - primarily the seekers, though Ratchet thought he recalled Soundwave having retractable claws. It was possible for an Autobot to have retractable claws as well, but not likely. Retractable claws were still visible if the fingertips were inspected closely enough, and he was quite certain he would have noticed such a thing in all his years of treating the Earthbound Autobots. Hand injuries were the most common after shoulders. Shoulders, hands, knees, and ankles - all were regularly inspected as routine maintenance, and there was _always_ something to fix whether it was a misaligned bearing or a rock caught in a mech's gears. Sensors on the hands and fingers also had to be recalibrated or replaced regularly, so no - if someone had retractable claws, Ratchet would have noticed.

Still, there was little else he could think of which could have left such marks on his sides. He could tell from the damage to his plating that the claws - or whatever they were - dug into him closer to his front and dragged back until they anchored, gouging plating and marring paint. So, whatever - whoever - had attacked him had done so from behind. The marks were shallow enough that simply engaging his color nanites and giving the area a quick buff would almost completely hide the damage, and his self-repair systems would not need more than an orn or two to completely erase the evidence. That was probably intentional. After all, if a cuculid victim was obvious, it defeated the purpose, did it not?

Ratchet shuddered and jerked his hand away from the scratches as if they had suddenly burned him. Thinking of it that way only reminded him of the... _thing_ now inside him, though there was really no way to _forget_ about it. He could feel it every time he moved. He could feel the drain on his systems. He could feel where it was attached to his power cables, fuel lines, and even his spark chamber to feed itself like the parasite it was. The drain was not excessive - there was no danger, at least for now, of it putting his own functionality in jeopardy. However, he had no way of knowing if that would change as it developed.

He shuddered again and finally reached out to the shelf near the spray controls for a cleaning brush and some solvent. As much as he wanted to, Ratchet knew he could not stay holed away in his wash rack forever. He still had obligations, and while no one thought much of it when his name was not on the duty roster initially, he knew it would be suspicious if he skipped the next shift as well. If First Aid was available, he might have been able to postpone returning to duty one more shift, but he was not, and Ratchet was expected to make an appearance.

As he scrubbed at his plating, an idea began to form. Perhaps some of the security cameras documented his movements during the night. Red Alert would be suspicious if Ratchet, of all mechs, asked to see the previous night's security feeds, but Ratchet _did_ hold officer rank, and protocol gave him the benefit of reviewing security footage whenever he asked. He could always fabricate an excuse. Perhaps he saw some "misaligned ventilation grates"; that was as good an excuse as any. Of course, such a reason would more than likely send Red Alert into a paranoid tizzy for fear of Decepticon cassette incursion, but it would get Ratchet access to the footage, _and_ Red Alert would help him. And if Red Alert helped him, he would also witness any condemning recording of Ratchet's attackers which would get Ratchet around the tampering of his spark which kept him silent.

It would identify them. It would give him _proof_ to show the other Autobots. It would be _perfect_.

It would...not work at all. The hopeful smile which had begun to cross his face faded.

There was one major problem with his plan: the _Ark_ 's entire electrical system, including the security systems, was only working a fraction of the time and was still undergoing continuous repairs. The problem started when a massive solar flare washed over Earth just two orns ago, the orn after the Protectobots left to help with the hurricane relief effort. The Autobots had known it was coming, and it had not been the first solar flare they had weathered before on Earth, but the unfortunate truth was that they were still learning about this planet and its volatile relationship with its home star. Cybertron had not orbited a star since the Dark Age, if it had ever orbited one at all. Even if it had, it was certainly before any mech aboard the _Ark_ was Sparked. Earth was the first time any Autobot aside from latecomer Skyfire had ever seen a star in such close proximity, much less lived alongside one long-term, and dealing with its radiation, sunspots, and solar flares was a learning curve with which they still struggled even a quarter of a vorn since their awakening.

As such, when the solar flare proved to be much larger and more powerful than the Autobots had anticipated, the resulting geomagnetic storm had far greater consequences than they had expected and had severely damaged the _Ark_ 's entire electrical system. The Autobots themselves had not fared much better - a few actually blacked out, and many were still suffering extensive glitches which the medical team was repairing as quickly as they could. To quote one of Sparkplug's favorite sayings, "When it rains, it pours." Ratchet was beginning to find a new appreciation for the phrase given the events of the last several orns, global, _Ark_ -wide, and personal.

As a result of the storm, the security system had also been in varying stages of on and offline as it was repaired. Many cameras needed to be completely rebuilt, those which still worked or could be repaired recorded corrupted data, and most of the associated sensors alternated between working fine one klik and not working at all a breem later. The security system was the highest priority for repairs after the Autobots themselves, and the entire population of the _Ark_ was frantic to fix it before the Decepticons realized how exposed they were and launched a devastating attack. The Decepticons had likely been entirely unaffected by the storm, buffered by the ocean as they were inside the _Victory_ , so the possibility of infiltration grew with every breem the system was down. However, every time one thing was finally fixed, three more broke in its place.

Even if Ratchet and his attackers _had_ been witnessed by any of the cameras, it was entirely possible that nothing usable had been recorded, if the camera decided to record at all. Smelt - the security grid's destruction may have been exactly what prompted them to finally make their move after so long staying hidden.

Ratchet scrubbed harder as his fuel tank churned in renewed despair. Without the security feed, he truly had no idea how he could find the identity of his attackers. The marks they left behind were definitely not from fingers - he knew that by now. The only Autobots with hands big enough for the marks to match were the Dinobots and Skyfire. Ratchet built the fragging Dinobots himself, so he at least knew _they_ were innocent, and Skyfire was incredibly unlikely if only because of his Arctic captivity throughout the majority of the war. If cuculids always traveled in pairs, then he should have at least been buried with his other half if he was one of them. So, no, it was not a hand which had damaged him, but he could not think of any sort of mechanism among his comrades which matched. Nor did he truly want to; the idea that someone had a mechanism on-hand and on board the _Ark_ which could clamp down on him like a vice and hold him in place was profoundly frightening, especially if he tried to imagine what it may have looked like, what it may have _felt_ like while he was trapped in it.

Despite the fact that he was as clean as he would ever be short of complete sterilization, Ratchet instantly felt filthy all over again and renewed scrubbing his marred plating. He resisted the urge to dial up the temperature of the water even further. He did not want to destroy his repair nanites - they needed to mend the gouged plating. Instead, he slathered a large amount of solvent on his brush again and started washing himself once more from the beginning. He focused on watching the combination of suds and water swirl down the drain in order to force himself not to think about anything related to his condition. He was getting clean - that was _all_.

_Don't think about what happened. Don't think about how it must have felt. Don't think about how they might have done it. Don't..._

His furious scrubbing finally slowed when he noticed flakes of color drop to the floor to flow down the drain in red and white streaks, and he winced as he began to lift the mental barriers he had tried to hide behind and felt the sting of plating scraped so hard he had stripped the paint. Ratchet forced himself to pull the brush away from his hip with a sigh and set it on the rack out of his way.

Once his hands were empty, he turned slowly in the spray to finish rinsing off the solvents and cleansers. He really would have to touch up his paint now - large stripped areas were too much for color nanites to replace, especially in multiple locations. It likely would not take too long, though. On first glance, it seemed he had only over-scrubbed a few areas, most notably where he had clearly been held by his attackers. Gingerly, Ratchet touched the deepest scrape on his hip again, and he frowned when he noticed it was angled down slightly. Another touch to the marks on his sides confirmed the same thing - the pair must have been shorter than him. Of course, that was not the best hint - Ratchet was on the larger end of the spectrum as far as Autobot sizes went, the same size as Ironhide and Trailbreaker. The only Earthbound mechs larger were Optimus, the Dinobots, and Skyfire, so "shorter" was not helpful.

 _They sure had a good grip on me, though,_ he thought with a scowl. He touched the gouge again. Such a tight grip would have had to— 

Ratchet's optics brightened.

_Paint transfers!_

Ratchet whirled to face the mirror and inspected himself closely. Paint transfers were common when mechs were pressed together. Any mech who interfaced with another always ended up with a few of his partner's colors on himself. Color nanites did not fix such a discrepancy - they were not intelligent enough to know which colors belonged on a mech and which did not. They were only capable of differentiating between "bare plating" and "paint". If his attackers left any paint on him, any at all, Ratchet would still have it. If he at least knew the _color_ of his attackers, one or both of them, he could narrow down the list of suspects.

Each scrape and gouge and scratch was inspected in the mirror to the last detail, but after both of his sides and hips had been checked over three times, Ratchet's spark sunk to the bottom of its chamber. In his frantic need to feel clean and his retreat into his own mind, he had scraped away nearly all of the paint over every mark, including his own. It had likely been subconscious - in fact, he realized with no small amount of sickness, his spark had likely compelled him to wash away the evidence, and he never suspected a thing.

Ratchet let out a frustrated yell and slammed a fist into one of the walls, denting the metal. A strip of paint was not going to tell him with full certainty who the cuculid pair was, but it could certainly have narrowed them down if the paint had been an unusual color such as yellow or black. Of course, if the color had not been unique, then its usefulness would have been negligible, nearly as useless as not having it at all. The number of red-painted mechs aboard the _Ark_ was ridiculous, and if one or both of the cuculids were red, paint would not help whatsoever.

But it would have been _something_. It would have been a ray of hope in a situation which seemed completely hopeless.

Ratchet snarled, finally pulled his fist away from the wall, and turned to glare at himself in the over-sized mirror. Sitting around and feeling scared and helpless was not going to flush his attackers into the open either. Terror and uncertainty crushed him from all sides, but he was beginning to wonder if that was also the damage to his spark convincing him of emotions he did not actually feel. Yes, what had happened to him was horrible and sickening, but he was Ratchet - he was a medic in wartime. He was just a few upgrades shy of being classified as a warbuild. He had taken down Decepticon invaders in an Autobot bunker with the built-in weaponry of a dead triage patient. He had endured sadistic interrogators in the most secure Decepticon prison facility on Cybertron.

He was _Ratchet_ , and he was _not helpless_.

Ratchet glared at his reflection, glared at what he had allowed himself to become. _This will not break me,_ he told himself, firm. He did not know how long it would take the pod to grow or what would happen once it was ready to be expelled from his body, but he knew he had time to investigate. Now that he knew there were monsters in their midst, he would know to look for odd behavior, watch for mannerisms which seemed out of the norm, search for details which did not fit with their surroundings. Such a specialized Cybertronian subtype _had_ to have telling cues.

 _This will not break me,_ he told himself again. _And I **will** find them._

Confidence and self-assurance bolstered, Ratchet reached out and slapped a hand against the wash rack controls to finally turn off the spray. He had time. He could be patient and investigate calmly. He could do this. He just needed to take things one step at a time, and the first steps were to fix his paint and face the world.

—

**_20:19  
+18 hours, 7 minutes_ **

Whatever confidence Ratchet had managed to shore up in the morning was hovering around his feet like a timid turbopup by the last shift of the orn. Determination and self-reliance only went so far when faced with the daunting reality of his situation. While Ratchet was still determined not to fixate on his condition and let fear control him, he was still far less confident than he started once he actually left his quarters and tackled the tasks ahead of him.

Inventory, once one of Ratchet's most despised routine tasks in the medbay for its utter monotony and tedium, had actually served to calm him exponentially. It gave him something on which to focus rather than fear and anger; instead of dwelling on the feeling of the pod nestled in his circuitry, he settled into a relaxing pattern of counting parts, writing down numbers, highlighting supplies which needed to be restocked, scheduling use of the laboratory for mixing new batches of medicines, and various other necessary tasks which Ratchet would have griped, grumbled, and probably passed on to someone else any other time. While he was in the stockroom, Ratchet organized tools and equipment which had fallen into disarray, rearranged a few trays of syringes and implements into a more logical order - what in Primus' name had possessed him to organize the clamps alphabetically rather than size in the first place? - and gathered a swath of soiled rags into a ball to be cleaned or disposed.

By the time he finally emerged from the stockroom, Ratchet's mood was just shy of mellow in the way only cycles of constructive activity could accomplish. The pod inside him shifted with every movement to remind him of its presence, but the calmness of the last few cycles of productivity helped him to ignore it, and Ratchet was pleased when he was able to actually hold a brief conversation without panicking internally as he had with First Aid the night before.

Feeling exponentially better for the time being, Ratchet watched Wheeljack guide Swoop through a somewhat complicated repair to Silverbolt's wing joint. He bantered with his best friend while Swoop worked, laughing as if all was right in the universe. These two mechs he knew he could trust, and that knowledge brought with it a balm of tranquility to his troubled mind and spark. He knew it was temporary, but Ratchet was willing to take whatever source of calm he could find. He _knew_ , once he was able to flush out his attackers, Wheeljack and Swoop would be a valuable source of comfort and peace of mind.

After a few breems, Ratchet checked the Dinobot's work, scheduled Silverbolt's follow-up exam in a few orns, and left the infirmary in Wheeljack's capable hands. It was all...deceptively normal.

With inventory out of the way for the next two weeks, Ratchet had no other pressing obligations for the next several cycles until it was his turn on the night shift, so he used the free time to begin his investigation. Unfortunately, he eventually came to realize he had to be honest with himself: the task was far more daunting than he wanted to admit.

His fears about the security footage had proven true. As suspected, Red Alert had been curious and pensive about Ratchet's interest in the feeds, but he had not argued as Ratchet expected. In fact, he had actually welcomed the help - Ratchet himself had treated Red Alert several times since the solar flare for processor strain and stress glitches due to the security director overworking himself trying to get the system running properly again. The mech rarely left the observatory and spent nearly every breem of the orn staring at the screens, searching for corrupted video, noting which feeds were frozen, which cameras needed to be replaced, and comparing audio to video to sensor read-outs to ensure all matched. It was an intensely stressful, endless task, and Ratchet was one of the very few Autobots Red Alert trusted to sit beside him and aid in the analysis. He had not hesitated to ask the medic to use his off-time to help him as soon as Ratchet expressed interest in the feeds.

That it coincided so wonderfully with what Ratchet wanted to accomplish was simply a bonus.

Together, they made extensive progress in diagnosing and scheduling repairs to the worst areas of the security grid, but Ratchet had been dismayed by the end of the third cycle as his fears were confirmed. Absolutely none of the surviving footage from when he left for his drive to the cycle he locked himself in his quarters showed enough video of him to be of use. The one camera in the hangar which had been online the entire night had frozen on a single image of the hangar entrance after Ratchet left for his drive and showed nothing but a portrait of the _Ark_ 's surrounding area with a deer frozen in mid-step in the distance. The sensor suite in the hangar worked for the most part but only insofar as registering the fact that a total of three mechs had moved in the area during the time frame Ratchet suspected he was attacked. The sensor suite was _supposed_ to scan ambient spark energy and record the designations of mechs it detected in order to sound the alarm if it identified a Decepticon intruder, but of _course_ the circuit which powered that function appeared to be fried. Again.

In the end, the only things Ratchet learned from helping Red Alert were that he had been attacked in the hangar, which he had already known or at least suspected, and that, if the time stamps on the sensors registering their movement in and around the hangar were any indication, his attack had lasted a cycle and a half, which was something he had _not_ wanted to know. At all.

His attention had been spotty at best after learning that horrible detail, but Ratchet had continued to help Red Alert analyze and diagnose and schedule for the rest of the orn. If Red Alert noticed his waning attention, the security director had not said anything. By the time Ratchet had only a cycle remaining before he needed to take his shift for the night, only a few more cycles of data still required attention. Ratchet called Prowl to replace him in the combined task and left medical orders for Red Alert to recharge a minimum of three cycles the nanoklik they finally completed analyzing the backlog if he did not want the head medic to lace his rations with sedatives.

Ratchet should have felt accomplished. Together, they had managed to formulate a plan for finally fixing the security grid, and Prowl would help put it into action once the analysis was complete. Ratchet _should_ have felt proud that he had aided in ensuring the Autobots' security crisis was finally nearing an end. Instead, he could only fixate on the lack of answers he found for himself.

So, Ratchet sat at a table in the commons and sipped slowly at his ration and wondered how he could start the day feeling confident and determined only to end it hopeless and frightened once more.

He sat at the farthest table from the entrance, the one Red Alert usually claimed when he did not take his energon in his private quarters. Before, Ratchet could not understand the appeal of this table over all the others - now, he understood. It overlooked the entire commons. He could see every corner but the one his back was pressed into, could watch every mech who entered and exited, could see where they sat and who they sat with, and its distance from the other tables and seats meant it went largely overlooked. It was the perfect vantage point for observation, and Ratchet suspected it would prove a valuable location in the future.

The number of possibilities was terrifying. As he quietly observed every mech who entered and exited, Ratchet wondered if he was one of them. He especially watched those who entered in pairs or groups, but singles did not go ignored either, just in case the cuculid's other half was occupied elsewhere. No one was above suspicion.

He took the fear and uncertainty and converted into anger, funneled it into hatred. Three hours, the pair, whoever they were, attacked him. Three _hours_ , they violated him, body and spark. It did not matter that Ratchet remembered nothing of it - it still _happened_. What mattered were their _actions_ and their _betrayal_ and the _parasite_ now growing inside him. What mattered was the very real danger that they could - _would_ \- strike again unless Ratchet could flush them out of hiding. What mattered was that Ratchet was going to _feed_ them their monstrous sparks the nanoklik he learned who they were. He was going to make them regret ever laying a finger on him.

The problem was there were _too many_ mechs they could be. The one detail Ratchet had been able to remember, the detail his spark had tried to send him into stasis for unlocking, was the shape and color of optics staring closely into his own. The color had been somewhat odd, a deeper blue than most Autobots' optics, but that could have simply been due to the close proximity or the lighting in the hangar, and the shape of a mech's optics was incredibly difficult to discern unless the mech was right in front of him. Getting up in mech's faces to stare at their optics would have been beyond rude in addition to highly suspicious, and his spark would not allow him to draw attention to himself or his condition. In the long run, unfortunately, his attacker's optics did not help at all.

In spite of the utter lack of information on the cuculidian spark subtype, almost _everyone_ made sense, and truly, the only mechs Ratchet could be positive they were not were the Dinobots, the Aerialbots, and the Protectobots as all had been Sparked after the Autobots' arrival on Earth. That still left every other mech, including the transfers from Cybertron. Ratchet liked to think he could rule out a few mechs who sported visors instead of optics or those rare few whose optics were not blue such as Mirage, but he could not rule out the fact that there was still the other half of the "team" to consider. There were a lot of couples aboard the _Ark_ , some of whom had been together longer than others, and there were equally as many mechs who flat-out refused to hook up with their comrades. It would make sense if the pair deliberately avoided one another; it would make them harder to spot and lessen their chances of being detected as anything but normal mechs.

And, though he did not like the thought, Ratchet had to consider the possibility that he had been targeted specifically. Had they chosen him simply because he had been alone at the right time, or was it personal? The medic was not on friendly terms with every mech aboard the _Ark_ , but he was hard-pressed to think of any true _enemies_ he may have made. Of course, no one got along with everyone all the time, but for the most part, the Autobots as a whole still managed to work together well enough. Some refused to work with others, but no one Ratchet could think of had ever displayed anything more than mild distaste for him. In the case of those mechs, the feeling was mutual, both for Ratchet and the majority of the _Ark_ 's population. Huffer and Gears had very few friends, and Cliffjumper, Sunstreaker, Hot Rod, and Tracks had managed to keep only a few more. Still, they had never displayed any true animosity toward the medic before.

Ratchet's attention shifted to the door once more as a new group of mechs entered the commons for their ornly ration. Everyone made sense in one way or another. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were nearly inseparable and, of course, had been together since they were Sparked. His suspicion on high alert, Ratchet suddenly began to see the gifts of wax, cloths, and the mirror in a new light. It was no secret aboard the _Ark_ that the twins had been interested in Ratchet for a long time and had made several overtures toward him. Ratchet had always declined, partly because he felt such a relation with his patients, especially patients he repaired as often as the twins, would be a breach of ethics but mostly because he did not want to risk forming an emotional attachment to two mechs who were among the most likely to come back from every battle in gunmetal grey pieces. They threw themselves into battle with a passion few Autobots possessed, and as a result, the length of their medical records and archived surgical reports just since the Autobots' awakening on Earth were only outmatched by Optimus'. Ratchet could not risk compromising himself and his abilities by allowing such an attachment.

The overtures had not stopped despite his steady stream of "no"s, but they had grown less serious over time. The pair _seemed_ to understand Ratchet's feelings on the matter and had never seemed to take his rejection personally, but now the medic wondered if they had finally decided to take what he would not give them by force. Had their seemingly innocent shared crush actually been a clever ruse to disguise their true plans? Had they targeted him from the very beginning as the host for their parasitic offspring? Or had they simply chosen him out of spite for rejecting them?

Another glimpse of red and yellow tore Ratchet's attention from the frontliner pair and down closer to the floor, to the table where Bumblebee and Cliffjumper were talking quietly amongst themselves as they ate before their off-shift. Ratchet frowned softly. The two minibots had joined the Autobots at different times during the war, but they had roomed together ever since. They were not seen together much outside of refueling or when they retired to their shared quarters at the same time, but perhaps the different times of enlistment and irregular joint-sightings were part of the ruse? They were much smaller than Ratchet, and most mechs likely would have laughed at the idea of either one of them, or even both together, managing to overpower him. However, Ratchet knew they were both much stronger than they appeared. Cliffjumper was a munitions and weaponry expert, second in training and expertise only to Ironhide. If it could fire a bullet, lash a whip, or extend a blade, Cliffjumper knew how to use it and use it well, and Ratchet had personally witnessed the red minibot take down mechs the size of seekers. Granted, he had not _held_ them down, certainly not for nearly two cycles, but there was also Bumblebee's possible role to consider.

The yellow minibot was the most disarming Autobot on Earth. He was amiable, cheerful, patient, easy to talk to no matter the subject, gentle around the humans and other organics, and one of the Autobots' deadliest assassins, third to his teammates, Mirage and Jazz. While Ratchet found it difficult to imagine that Bumblebee could have hidden his true nature from Jazz for so long, he could not deny it was _possible_. After all, cuculids had apparently been able to vanish to the point that all of Cybertron thought them extinct since the dawn of the Golden Age. There were likely many tactics they employed to keep themselves hidden. However, minibots were a somewhat uncommon frame-type. Ratchet could only guess how cuculids propagated themselves, but if they had to attack any mech they could in order to implant their pod, then the pair did not make much sense as minibots. Though Cliffjumper and Bumblebee were certainly a force to be reckoned with, especially together, their size still limited their choice of victims.

Unless that was the trick all along - unless _all_ minibots were cuculids and used their numbers and combined mass to subdue their victims.

Ratchet shuddered and pulled a long gulp from his cube to quell the urge to retch. That theory brought to mind something he had completely forgotten: due to the glitches in the security system, standard procedure had someone always on guard duty at the hangar. Ratchet remembered Huffer had been the mech on duty when he left to drive around the _Ark_. If Ratchet was attacked in the hangar, then there were only two possible explanations: either Huffer left his post for reasons unknown - which, if Ratchet was honest with himself, was _not_ out of the ordinary for the contrary minibot - or Huffer had been one of his attackers.

The light of his optics narrowed slightly. Both scenarios were equally likely. Huffer had a bad habit of leaving his post when he was the only one on guard duty, no matter how important said post was. It was something he was regularly reprimanded and punished for; at the same time, however, he could very well have still been there when Ratchet returned, now with his other monstrous half, and together, they overpowered him.

Primus, Ratchet wished at least _one fragging second_ of footage from the hangar had survived.

Two new arrivals, two new suspects. Again, Ratchet frowned thoughtfully. Trailbreaker and Hound had been best friends for vorns, nearly as inseparable as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, but for all appearances, friendship was as far as their relationship ever went. Both seemed more or less uninterested in the physical aspect, at least to an outside observer. Perhaps things were different under the surface? Or perhaps the "friends only" picture was just that - a false mural to divert suspicion. Trailbreaker was somewhat stand-offish, a quiet mech who preferred to be approached rather than approaching another even for casual conversation. Hound, on the other hand, was the direct opposite - he was friends with, or at least got along quite well with, nearly every mech aboard the _Ark_ , even those he seemed to have absolutely nothing in common with like Smokescreen and Perceptor. It was a startling contrast to his friend's much more subdued nature, but, again, that could have been the whole point. Did Hound disarm Ratchet with his winning smile while Trailbreaker slipped behind him? Did Trailbreaker then use his bulk and his forcefields to restrain the medic while Hound leapt?

As Ratchet watched them, they were joined by another likely candidate. Mirage was as much an enigma as his name indicated. He kept to himself, remained unobtrusive, and preferred not to be noticed. It was rare that he even ventured to the commons when there were more than a handful of mechs present, rarer still that he spoke to anyone when he _did_ see fit to fuel among his comrades. Only Hound, in his flawless ability to bring out the best side of a mech, Trailbreaker, in that he was rarely found far from Hound, and Jazz, due to his direct command over the spy, could keep Mirage from sitting alone.

The desire to be alone was not too unusual, especially given the unwelcoming attitude projected to him by the majority of the Autobot fold, particularly Cliffjumper and Brawn. Mirage had never been anything but a loyal Autobot, but still, even after all these vorns of fighting alongside one another, many mechs still gave him the cold shoulder. Ratchet wondered if, perhaps, this meant something instinctual was at play - was it an ingrained aversion to the mech because of his true, monstrous nature? His frame was elegant and exotic - perhaps _too_ exotic. Mirage was the last known survivor of the Iacon Towers. Little was known about the Tower nobility - perhaps that was because they had all been beasts? Sometimes, the best way to hide something was to hide it in plain sight.

Ratchet frowned again; it made sense, but cuculids always traveled in pairs, and Mirage was always alone when he was not sharing a cube with Hound, Jazz, or Trailbreaker. The only way that made sense was if Mirage was _not_ the only survivor, but if that was the case, then who was his other half? Several Autobots sported privileged backgrounds. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe once again came to mind due to Sunstreaker's famous artistry to which Sideswipe acted as his agent, publicist, and marketer. Another likely candidate was Bluestreak - before the Praxus bombings, he had been a board member of a highly successful merchant guild and was probably considered to be as close to Tower nobility as one could get without actually _being_ Tower nobility. Ratchet tried to envision Mirage and Bluestreak together - the picture did not really fit, but...

As some of his previous suspects began to leave after finishing their cubes, Ratchet's attention was drawn to the next pair to enter, and his optics brightened slightly. Of course - why had he not thought of them before? If there was truly the oddest couple of odd couples aboard the _Ark_ , it was Blaster and Tracks. They had nearly nothing in common in personality, appearance, or frame-type, but they were almost as inseparable as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, even more so than Hound and Trailbreaker. Blaster was already an incredibly rare subtype of mech given his status as a "spark splitter", a Cybertronian who could break off slivers of his spark's energy to create cassette mechs. How much further a leap was it for him to be the first half of a cuculidian pair with Tracks? Tracks himself was a frame-type so rare he was the only one among the Autobots as a whole. His spark was in constant turmoil, struggling between the conflicting energies and desires of both a groundling and a flyer. Was his host a groundling and the cuculid attackers a pair of seekers? Or perhaps the other way around?

When the next mech entered, Ratchet felt physically ill, and it was a struggle to keep his expression blank even with his spark coercing him into projecting a constant outward state of calm. Ratchet hoped to Primus for this mech not to be one of them - he _begged_ Primus for it not to be true. If he was, the medic honestly did not know if he could survive the betrayal. For the sake of Ratchet's mind and spark and the Autobots as a whole, _please_ —

Ratchet stiffly lifted a hand to return the genial wave Optimus Prime gave him, his fuel tank roiling at the idea that their very leader was possibly one of them. He was certainly big enough and strong enough to have subdued Ratchet with no difficulty, as was Ironhide. The two had been together helping one another since the beginning of the war. Ironhide had guided Optimus through his ascendance into Primacy, trained him in the art of combat, and was the one mech with whom Optimus truly allowed himself to be vulnerable. Both mechs were two of three Autobots Ratchet trusted above everyone else, and the sheer thought that two of his best friends, his trusted leader one of them, very possibly could have been—

No.

Ratchet swallowed against the nearly overwhelming urge to empty his fuel tank all over the table. _No_. He refused to believe it. The thought was too horrible, and there were factors in play which made it unlikely, facts he clung to as if magnetized. Optimus was the one mech he repaired the most. He had seen every last micron of his leader's internal components in numerous stages of repair from head to foot, and Ratchet had _never_ seen anything which indicated Optimus was anything but a normal mech in a normal body...but there was little known about the Matrix he carried, almost as little as there was about the cuculid Cybertronian subtype. What if it had something to do with it? Could the cuculid subtype have survived by becoming the very mechs Cybertronians as a whole revered? It would be a convincing ruse - no one would ever suspect the most respected figurehead of Cybertron to be a monster.

Ratchet shook his head and finished his cube in one long pull. He needed to get out of here. Every mech was just as likely as the last, and as desperate as he was to find the culprits, he was not so desperate that he did not notice he was becoming irrational. He needed to calm himself, not only so he could resume his investigation with a level head but also so he could take the night shift in the medbay reliably. There were still Autobots to repair - _normal_ Autobots; _good_ Autobots - and he would be of no benefit if he could not perform his duties. He disposed of his empty cube and waved to the mechs who noticed him leaving before he made his way to the infirmary to relieve Wheeljack and Swoop.

He would find them - he _would_ \- and after he found them, he would string them up by their wires and take Optimus' rifle to their sparks.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_01:25  
+5 days, 23 hours, 47 minutes_ **

Rage. Disgust. Terror. Revulsion. Desperation. Hatred. It was hard to think beyond the deluge of negative emotion which permeated his mind and spark every breem of every orn he was online. Even harder was enduring the overwhelming need to communicate it with _anyone_ who would listen. That need was continually silenced, adding frustration to the already substantial pile of negative emotions as Ratchet constantly found himself smiling to his fellow Autobots and acting as if nothing at all was amiss even as he screamed at himself internally. He knew it was beyond pointless to try speaking or even writing what was happening to him where someone might read it, but smelt it all, his rebellious spark could at least let him _look_ like something was wrong. At this point, the anger and disgust was also directed at himself, not just the parasite inside him or its backstabbing creators. It was small consolation that changes in his behavior were being remarked upon by his subordinate medics - small consolation only because he could not tell the truth when asked and easily explained away why he was obsessed with rearranging the storeroom, why he insisted on only taking the night shift, or why he insisted he be the one to administer the fuel leak checks Wheeljack had proposed.

Wheeljack's concerns had been valid and had nearly given Ratchet a spark seizure from his rebellious spark screaming at him to intervene. The engineer had presented a device to him which was supposed to check for minute changes in mechs' fuel intake in regards to their body's energy output, changes small enough that normal scanners and readings might not detect. He said it was to be on the safe side just in case anyone was having undiagnosed energy issues as a result of the solar flare just over a week ago, and if anyone _was_ , they needed to catch it before it became any worse. It was a very valid concern and quite possible - Ratchet had actually caught such a glitch in Bumblebee's systems before when he had been exposed to - actually plastered onto - a powerful electromagnet as part of a Decepticon Doomsday Device. The powerful magnetics combined with the minibot's small size and, thus, slightly thinner armor had caused several glitches in his fuel systems. The minibot was ingesting the proper amount of energon, but only half of it was actually going to his systems. The geomagnetic storm had been a different type of energy and had a different effect on the Autobots, but as Wheeljack said, it was better to be safe than sorry and catch a problem while it was still minor, before it became as severe as Bumblebee's had before he was finally diagnosed and repaired.

The problem which had Ratchet's spark shrieking at him to stop it was there was a chance it might detect an energy anomaly in his own system as well: the egg currently tapped into his reserve fuel tank. Thankfully, all Ratchet had to do was insist to be the medic to perform the tests. It was odd and somewhat frustrating that Wheeljack had argued with him on that point - rather vehemently, in fact - citing that Ratchet had more important things to focus on and that he was perfectly capable of doing it and it was his device anyway. The argument, quite uncharacteristic for Wheeljack now that Ratchet thought of it, had lasted for what seemed like a slice of eternity. In reality, it had only been two breems, but Ratchet finally won without having to pull rank. The engineer and his best friend had _clearly_ not been happy about it, though, and the head medic made a mental note to make it up to him somehow later, perhaps with a cube after Ratchet's horrible ordeal was finally over and he could turn to Wheeljack for the comfort he so desperately wanted.

Still, at least his spark was sated for now - he just fabricated the results of his own "test", then tested everyone else, and that was that. The egg was undetected for a while longer.

By comparison, the storeroom obsession had been easy to brush off - after he had discovered what a stupid system he had used for originally organizing the clamps, Ratchet swiftly used it as an excuse to claim he was still sorting and reorganizing to ensure everything was arranged in the most logical yet easily accessible manner possible, and such perfection took time. He was careful to ensure his actions seemed normal enough; the security grid had finally been fully repaired, so the cameras were always watching, even more closely now to make up for the week the grid was offline. His proclaimed need for "perfection" lead to his usurping the night shift - the _Ark_ was at its quietest at night thanks to the Autobots as a whole adapting to Earth's short rotations. There was something about night which commanded quiet and relaxation and a lull in activity. When Ratchet tried to think about it, it failed to make sense - Cybertron did not orbit a star and, thus, was constantly dark just like Earth at night, so it was not as if nighttime was _new_. Still, there was just something about night on Earth which had tricked the Autobots - and, apparently, the Decepticons as well to a point - into believing it to be some sort of unspoken, universal "quiet time".

Illogical, yes, but Ratchet was using it to its full advantage currently and, thus, could not complain. The _Ark_ was quietest at night, and the medbay saw very few incoming patients unless there was a true medical emergency or, on one baffling occasion, a very ill-fated interfacing attempt which had somehow involved Prowl, Red Alert, and a set of human-grade defibrillator electrodes. Neither humiliated party explained, and Ratchet had decided he emphatically did _not_ want to know and, after repairing their fried wiring and Prowl's ruptured fuel tank, had given them a stern reprimand - slag it all, that thing was for if Sparkplug had another heart attack, _not_ an electro-play device, and frag if they weren't supposed to be old enough and smart enough to know better than to try something that half-clocked! - before shooing them back from whence they came. _Really - I'd expect something like that from Sideswipe and Bluestreak, not those two._ Barring any other thoughtless adventures into the realm of kinky interfacing, Ratchet claimed the relative quiet of the night shift gave him enough time to be thorough in his quest to have the perfectly organized infirmary storeroom.

No one needed to know what he _did_ with all of those pain killers, nanomedicines, and chemicals he rearranged nightly. Well, they did need to know, and Ratchet _wanted_ them to know, but his spark was not having it. It was barely allowing his actions already.

He rearranged everything to hide what he was using. With inventory in constant chaos from his sudden "obsession", no one would notice that a vial of acraphyn and two vials of opthalax went missing this night or that six vials of calydiman had vanished overnight along with syringes, bladed scalpels, laser scalpels, forceps, and the smallest medical grade arc welder, all over the last six orns since being attacked and implanted with the parasite inside him. No one would ever guess that such implements and supplies were missing, just as they would never guess their decidedly _not_ medically sanctioned use.

It had been the second orn since being attacked that Ratchet decided the only way he was going to flush out his attackers before they struck again was if he could communicate his situation and enlist help in his hunt. He knew that was impossible under his current circumstances, so it had not taken him long to reach the logical conclusion: if his spark was telling him he had to stay silent to protect the egg inside him, it stood to reason that his silence would no longer be necessary if the egg was no longer there to _need_ protection.

Carrying it to whatever point of time it needed in order to develop fully was not an option, as far as Ratchet was concerned. He could barely refuel and recharge for constantly feeling the wretched thing nestled in his circuits and between his cabling. He could tell it had grown - in addition to a noticeable difference in its size, it was draining just a little more of his spark energy and fuel than it had when first implanted six orns past. As far as Ratchet could determine by way of the mirror in his wash rack and the private diagnostic machine, all which was still inside the egg was a combination of energon and nanites. He assumed the nanites would get to work building the parasite's body soon enough once the egg absorbed enough of his energon, and he wanted to stop that before it happened.

So, he had taken the night shift every night for almost a week and raided inventory for any combination of chemicals, medicines, and tools which could kill it. It was vulnerable - it was just a silicone ball tucked inside him. All he had to do was pop it or poison it, and his nightmare would be over. Ratchet supposed he had not really wanted to admit to himself how hopeless his quest was, in the long run. He had harbored suspicions that the coercion of his spark would stop his attempts to abort the parasite, but he still had to _try_.

And try he had for five nights. For five nights, Ratchet cleared out the infirmary, logged in his presence on the duty roster, waited half a cycle to ensure no one was going to swing by any time soon, then "reorganized" inventory. Once he had his choices in tools or chemicals, he slipped into his quarters where there were no cameras, stood in front of the mirror in his wash rack, and tried to kill the monster inside him.

Every attempt failed miserably. His first few attempts had been very direct: bladed and laser scalpels held in-hand and taken to the fragile, achingly vulnerable, _silicone_ sheathe of the egg, and each time, Ratchet's hand froze, shaking, the sharp blade of the scalpel just microns from making contact. His rebellious body and spark had not even allowed him to get the laser scalpel inside his abdominal cavity, much less anywhere _near_ the egg, and the one time he tried the arc welder, he had barely turned it on before a nauseating wave of panic forced him to throw it away from him with enough force to shatter it against the wall. That was one missing piece of equipment he _would_ have to explain sooner or later.

The next few attempts had been a little more subtle: normal medicines and pain killers were combined with innocuous chemicals to create poisons which Ratchet was certain would destroy the nanites inside the egg. At least, they would, if he could just get the fragging syringe close enough to it to inject. Even trying to force his hand closer with the other was no use. Ratchet remained frozen in place, his spark whirling dizzyingly in its chamber, until he stopped trying to kill his parasite.

By the sixth night since being implanted with the beast, Ratchet was nearly out of ideas. He had briefly considered simply injecting himself with the poisons he had created or even outright drinking them, but he knew that would be useless. He knew from studying the positioning of the egg's tendrils over the last week that it was patched in after his toxin filters. Any poison strong enough to make it through a _medic_ -grade toxin filtration system and into his fuel systems would definitely kill the egg but would likely irreparably harm Ratchet as well. Desperate and violated he may have been, but he was not _suicidal_. Still, he had one more idea.

Ratchet scrutinized the tiny white electrode pad of the automated external defibrillator with no small amount of nervousness. Half-clocked and thinking far too much with their interfacing drives though they may have been, perhaps Prowl and Red Alert had been onto something. If the charge had been strong enough to rupture Prowl's fuel tank... Ratchet shuddered. He had no idea exactly how that had happened as he had only seen the aftermath, and he did _not_ want to think about how much voltage such a little thing could deliver to do damage like _that_. And humans used these things on each other? It was rather horrifying. Still, it was his best - and probably last - shot, but the longer he thought about it, the less he wanted to place the second pad against his plating to join the first. He kept thinking back to the scorch marks on Prowl's plating, the clumps of Red Alert's wiring which had melted together, the crack in Prowl's fuel tank, the bubbled and burnt paint on both of them—

Ratchet shuddered again, tore the first electrode from himself, and shoved the infernal device away. Yes, it probably would be enough to kill the egg, but at what cost to _him_? He was not suicidal, and if it did _not_ kill the egg, then he would have severely damaged himself for nothing. Such damage _would_ let the others know something was seriously wrong and would prompt them to examine him and, thus, find the egg as they repaired him, but, his spark reminded him with a sharp, painful pulse in reprimand, that was something it could not - would not - allow to happen. Had Ratchet not pushed the defibrillator away of his own accord, he was certain he would have against his will anyway as he had the arc welder, the scalpels, and the syringes.

He leaned heavily against his desk, hid his face in his hands, and shivered for a good few kliks. He had told himself, promised himself, for the last six orns that this ordeal would not break him - he _would_ find a way out of this - but now, he was beginning to wonder. Every time he thought he found a way out of his situation, it turned around and slammed him into the ground again and reminded him with harsh, painful reality that he was well and truly _trapped_. He was trapped for an indeterminable amount of time - the incomplete, footnote of a "record" in the database held absolutely no helpful information, barely worth the space it occupied in the database. It could not tell him how long his nightmare would continue. It could not tell him what would happen after the egg finally developed enough to be expelled - _how_ would it be expelled? Was he just going to collapse in the middle of the rec room, open his abdomen, and drop it like a pregnant cow? Was it going to hatch inside him and remove itself by force through his plating like in that old movie Carly watched with such fondness? Would he _survive_ its growth and development, or was he doomed to have his spark energy and fuel leeched until someone finally entered his quarters to nothing but a greyed husk with a hole in its belly and a tiny monster unleashed on the world?

Ratchet bolted to his wash rack as he finally lost the battle against the urge to vacate his fuel tank. Once he stopped retching, he simply sat with his back pressed against the cool wall, his arms resting against his upraised knees. One hand covered half of his face as his free optic glared tiredly and forlornly at himself in the mirror Sunstreaker gave him. _Look at what you've become, Ratchet,_ he chastised himself. _You've faced down Decepticons. You've repaired critical mechs in the middle of some of the worst battlefields in the war's history. And **this** is what you've become. All it took was two of your friends hurting you._

_How the mighty have fallen._

He almost did not notice the notification beep from his desk which indicated someone had entered the infirmary. It was not until he heard the newcomer calling for him that he finally forced himself to acknowledge the fact that the outside world _was_ still active. Reality did not care about his situation. Reality did not acknowledge his despair. He still had duties to perform, _real_ friends to repair.

< _Just a klik,_ > he sent to the intercom outside his quarters so whoever was in the medbay was acknowledged and would know to wait. Ratchet then forced himself to his feet and spent a few more nanokliks glaring at himself in the mirror before he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and turned to leave. No - he had _not_ fallen. This was just a setback. He was sure he still had several more weeks, perhaps months, before the egg was ready to be expelled. He _would_ keep investigating and trying new methods until then. He would not let this break him. For the sake of not only himself but also for his other Autobot comrades, he _could not_ let the monsters in their midst win.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_14:56  
+10 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes_ **

The air was thick with smoke and the scent of burnt plating. The floor was slick with spilled energon and oil, and it was all the medics could do to keep the sparks from frayed wires and their own repair attempts from falling where they might ignite the fluids underfoot. Thankfully, there were no serious injuries yet, but that was bound to change at any klik as the Decepticons pressed their attack. Metal crates and boxes filled with surplus supplies had been stacked almost at random throughout the hangar for no one really knew how long - possibly months; now, however, they were stacked with the heaviest at the front to form a rudimentary barrier to shield the back half of the hangar and, thus, the rest of the _Ark_ as best as possible. With half of the hangar at least moderately shielded from stray blaster fire, the medics were able to use the space and a few mobile Autobot repair bays to patch injuries as they arrived.

If asked, no one would admit they were surprised by the current situation. Most Autobots were more surprised it had taken the Decepticons as long as it had to take advantage of the damage the solar flare did over a week ago. The security grid had finally been fixed four orns past, eight orns after the solar flare, but it had clearly been too little too late - either they had not been quick enough to fix the compromised system, or they had simply not been vigilant enough without it - or both. Ratchet's vote was "both" because there was no way otherwise that Soundwave's little minions could have implanted a fragging _bomb_ inside Teletraan-1 without being seen or detected by someone or _something_ at any point during those eight orns. If the security grid had been functional sooner or the Autobots as a whole had simply been less panicked and more observant, then this whole mess might have been avoidable.

But they were not, and now they were paying the price.

In all likelihood, the Decepticons had known of the Autobots' difficulties following the geomagnetic storm since it happened and had simply been lying in wait for the last week and a half to wait for the best opportunity to strike. It was uncharacteristic of them - it would have been more Megatron's style to simply launch a full-scale assault the nanoklik he realized the _Ark_ 's surveillance systems were compromised. Perhaps Soundwave had convinced him to wait. Perhaps Megatron had simply not noticed anything was amiss on the Autobots' side until a few orns ago. There was no way to be positive. All the Autobots knew was that the main Teletraan-1 terminal was still on fire which meant at least three Autobots were needed to attempt extinguishing said fire which meant there were fewer Autobots available to fight the Decepticon force outside.

It was a small blessing that the main terminal was not the _only_ Teletraan terminal - that was one of the many places where Red Alert's paranoia and overly cautious approach to everything actually paid off. Teletraan was actually spread throughout the entire _Ark_ with redundant terminals on top of redundant terminals, all linked to one another, all coded to sever connectivity to any compromised or damaged terminal, and at least one-third shielded heavily enough to survive the solar flare with little issue. The "main" terminal was just the biggest, the most obvious, and touted to be the most important specifically so it made a more obvious target for attempted sabotage. The Autobots as a whole fostered the impression that any damage or other compromise to the main terminal would result in utter disaster for the _Ark_ and everyone in it when, in reality, it was only a minor inconvenience. The ruse worked, though - a quarter of a vorn, and the Decepticons had not caught on yet. They _still_ targeted the main terminal under the illusion that taking it out would throw the Autobots into chaos, and they _still_ had not yet comprehended why it never did.

Of course, when the main terminal was _on fire_ , that made things a little more tricky. Smoke filled the corridors and impeded vision and ventilation as well as created a toxic environment for the Autobots' resident human allies, and flames threatened to ignite nearby energon stores. So, the fire was the higher priority, but the Decepticons firing into the hangar and reaming the landscape outside the _Ark_ were certainly one Pit of a distraction.

Ratchet felt a little guilty for being relieved to have the distraction, but he could not deny it. The chaos helped to draw his attention from everything but the present and the mech under his hands, and he was _relieved_ the Decepticons finally decided to attack and give him something to do other than fret and panic. With blaster fire flashing overhead, explosions still ringing in his audios, and a torn fuel line under his hands, it was easy to forget anything else. For a cycle or two, he was just Ratchet again - head Autobot medic, king of snark, and scourge of those with trypanophobia. For a cycle or two, he was secure and confident and as happy as he could be with his hands buried in Windcharger's back to patch the minibot's fuel line. Triage or retrieval requests were broadcast on the medical frequency which took priority to the combat line. So long as no one issued any communications across it, Ratchet was able to focus on the work under his hands and let the chatter on the primary combat frequency drone on in the background.

"There," he said as he finished the patch to Windcharger's perforated fuel line. "It's a temp, so I can't send you back outside. Go swap places with someone in the command center and see if that fire's under control yet. Don't strain it, or it'll come open again." Ratchet closed the grey minibot's back and gave it a firm pat to let Windcharger know he was good to move.

"Got it," Windcharger answered and tossed an appreciative smile over his shoulder. "Thanks, Doc."

As the minibot fled inside, Ratchet took a klik to look around at the more-or-less shielded section of the hangar to ensure no other Autobots needed immediate repairs. On the other side of the hangar, he spied First Aid replacing some severed wires in Sideswipe's arm as Wheeljack finished placing a burn patch on Mirage's leg. Hoist was on Ratchet's side of the hangar stabilizing Skydive's sheared wing, and Swoop, Ratchet knew, was outside - he was a Dinobot and a soldier first and foremost, so his official place was on the battlefield. He would assist with repairs once the battle ended.

Ratchet started to move from his crouch to bolt to the other side to assist First Aid when a request came in on the medical frequency followed by an enraged roar from outside. 

< _Prime is down! Prime is down!_ > someone shrieked.

< _I am not!_ > came the clearly pained voice of the Prime. < _It was a lucky shot - disregard!_ >

< _Like smelt!_ > Ratchet snapped. It would not have been the first or even the twentieth time Optimus had said to "disregard" a triage request made on his behalf. Some incidents were far more serious than others, but Optimus' tendency to downplay any "lucky shot", especially when the battle was still raging, meant Ratchet trusted the Autobot leader's judgment of his own condition about as far as he could throw Bruticus. "Mirage - with me!" the head medic barked. While he was strong, Ratchet knew he could not pull Optimus inside by himself, especially if the stubborn aft decided to fight him, and whether Wheeljack was finished with that burn patch or not, the spy could still walk.

Ratchet emerged from the _Ark_ to...well, not much worse than he expected, really. The surrounding landscape was rent with smoking craters and blackened earth as was the norm when the Autobots endured an outright Decepticon assault - it was a wonder any wildlife still hung around the volcano. Mechs in varying stages of injury were scattered in the fight, and the few who had held back the entire battle to defend the hangar were now running forward to give chase to the Decepticons who had begun to flee with or without their own leader's order. Megatron himself was fielding fangs and claws and horns from all sides as three Dinobots converged to back him away from their injured Prime. In the distance, but still far too close for comfort, Ratchet saw Devastator enduring a volley of laser fire from Autobots desperate to break apart the Constructicons before he could crush the unfortunate Autobot in his enormous hand. The remaining Aerialbots, unable to adequately form Superion without Skydive, were preoccupied with Starscream and the other seekers, and Defensor was barely managing to hold his own against Menasor with one arm due to First Aid's absence while the remaining two Dinobots, Sludge and Snarl, harried Bruticus. It was by far the worst assault the _Ark_ had ever endured, but the Autobots were managing to hold their own better than Ratchet expected.

Prime was down on one knee, but he was taking pot shots at Devastator now that Megatron was preoccupied with a face full of robotic _Tyrannosaurus_. That was good - to Ratchet, it meant Optimus' demand of "disregarding" the medical frequency was not simply him being stubborn. Still, any injury could not be afforded, not with the Decepticons so close to full retreat. Ratchet rushed forward to assist his leader and waved to Mirage to assist the others chipping at Devastator's defenses to free whomever had been unfortunate enough to end up in the combiner's grip.

"I told you to disregard," Optimus hissed when Ratchet knelt beside him.

"And you're still surprised when I ignore such stupid orders?" the medic scoffed and reached down to the large wound in his leader's side. Burnt and partially melted plating surrounded the exposed circuitry and melted wiring - it looked bad and was probably very painful, but as far as injuries went, Optimus had certainly endured _much_ worse. Ratchet was quick to pull a metalmesh patch from the medical supplies he always carried in his frame and tacked it in place with soft welds while Optimus continued to shoot at Devastator. It was a temporary patch, of course - the damage was extensive enough that self-repair systems would not be able to fix the entire wound, but it would do until the end of the battle and until those Autobots with more grievous damage had been repaired.

A shriek of rage and agony pulled Ratchet's attention away from the patch just in time to see Grimlock, his immensely powerful jaws clamped down on Megatron's left forearm, twist his head to the side and rip the tyrant's limb off at the elbow in a shower of sparks and energon. Megatron's scream was almost simultaneous with a second scream of pain and terror, this one from the Autobot trapped in Devastator's grip as the combiner squeezed. Grimlock, Slag, and Swoop turned their attention to Devastator to help free their fellow Autobot before he could be killed while Megatron stumbled away, holding where his forearm used to be as he yelled for the remaining Decepticons to retreat.

Ratchet's attention was brought back to Optimus when the Autobot leader surged to his feet once more to get into a better stance for firing, desperate to loosen Devastator's hold on his comrade, though he need not have bothered. When Megatron issued the order to retreat, the Constructicon combiner grunted and swung his arm to throw his captive away. Ratchet, preoccupied trying to complete the patch on a now stubbornly moving Prime, barely had a chance to look up before he found himself struck by the violently discarded Autobot. They tumbled backwards for a klik, Ratchet swearing the whole way, before they rolled to a dazed and painful stop.

Ratchet pushed himself to his hands and knees with a growl only to freeze when he attempted to stand. The scorched grass below him swayed and distorted in his vision which clouded with error after error on his HUD, and a wave of nausea kept him down as pain shot through his torso, starting from his cracked windshield and spreading through his chest and abdomen where the other mech had impacted with him. One red hand pressed against the heavily dented plating underneath his chest, and he wavered unsteadily on his knees and remaining hand. His audio receptors seemed to be malfunctioning - the sounds of battle seemed much farther away than he knew they were, and though he knew someone was calling his name, he could not bring himself to look up from the ground.

As far as hits went, Ratchet knew he had endured far worse - what was different? How had the other Autobot collided with him to cause such pain—

His hand was wet. The medic's first fear was that his fuel tank had ruptured, and he pulled his trembling hand away from his abdomen to confirm only to stare blankly at the fluids coating it. Energon was not purple. What—

Another wave of nausea hit him with the force of a rogue Dinobot, and Ratchet felt something inside him _pop_. Fluids rushed into his systems, over his circuitry, and began to leak out of gaps in his plating in pale purple and silver rivulets. His spark stuttered in its chamber and sent a chill through him. He tried to cry out, but his vocalizer would not work. He barely heard his name being called once more and only finally managed to lift his head when black hands came into his field of vision.

Hound knelt before him, his plating riddled with cracks and deep dents, one leg leaking badly from a split fuel line, and his engine crushed from Devastator's grip. Peeled up from just behind the scout's wheel well near his shoulder was a partially broken, multi-jointed rod which tapered to a sharp point. Ratchet stared at him, but he barely noticed the scout's damage. Hound was saying something, asking if Ratchet was okay, asking what was wrong with him, but the white mech could not hear him. Hearing was not important. What was important was what he _saw_.

The same color - the same _shape_ \- just micrometers from Ratchet's face, the medic saw the exact same optics which had plagued his recharge for ten orns. Micrometers from him, Ratchet saw a segmented rod pulled up from Hound's frame, forced from wherever it was hidden before Devastator tried to crush him, which was sharp and tapered just like a claw, a claw an Autobot _should not have_ , and all Ratchet could do was stare in growing terror that one of his attackers was directly in front of him, close enough to touch him again.

His spark surged, and his plating began to rattle as a protoform-deep tremble coursed through his body. His HUD was still flooded with errors, but they went unheeded - all he could see were those optics as his spark stuttered and his systems spiraled into shock. He barely registered as Hound looked down at the substance leaking from Ratchet's interior and then looked back up. He barely registered Hound's own dawning realization and horror. All Ratchet could think was that he needed to run, needed to _flee_ , needed to get as far away from this monster as he could, but he was frozen in place, trembling and leaking and unable to speak.

All Ratchet could manage was a weak, choked " _You—_ " before darkness claimed him.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_10 days earlier_ **

**_Day 0 — 04:59  
+2 hours, 47 minutes after the attack_ **

Everything hurt.

Static filled Hound's vision as he attempted to boot up his optics three times. He finally managed to get a fuzzy image to load and found himself staring blankly up at an _Ark_ orange ceiling. Every joint and strut from his neck to his ankles _ached_ , even the plating itself in some areas. His processor throbbed, and static jumped between his circuits, leaving him too sore to move. It was not a _new_ sensation - aches and pains of this kind were depressingly normal lately, but somehow, this felt different. He almost would have thought he drank entirely too much the night before if he had not known he had not touched high grade in weeks, not since Prowl's last contraband raid. Besides, the only high grade ever on hand was distilled by Beachcomber, and Hound knew better than to try _his_ blends anymore after the last one nearly stripped the housing of his fuel tank. So, no, he did not think he was simply hung over.

...but if that was not the case, then why did he feel so...detached from himself?

Hound tried to recall what he did the night before; there had to be a logical explanation for his muddied processor and aching joints and plating. However, he could recall nothing. As far as he remembered, he had been watching a movie with some other Autobots in the commons while he was repairing a light bar in the wall. Once he finished with the light, he had stayed long enough to see the rest of the movie, then retired to his quarters for the night...right? Hound stared at the offensively orange ceiling and tried to remember the walk back to his room and was somewhat concerned that he could not. His memory of the night before stopped shortly after he left the commons.

Carefully, Hound pushed himself up onto one elbow so he could ensure he was where he thought he should be. A quick, murky glance around his dimly lit and somewhat chaotic surroundings told him "no". This room certainly was not his - it was his mate's. His mate was an officer and, as such, commanded a larger private suite than the mere soldiers like Hound. That was fine with him, really - he had no need for more room than was required to house a berth, a small table, and a desk, unlike his mate who tended to bring his work "home" with him more often than not. Said work often found itself discarded in a corner or under the berth or any number of places only to be rediscovered months later when the item and its associated project were all but forgotten.

Muffled footsteps from the back corner told Hound his other half was in the private wash rack, though there was no telltale soft hiss of the rack being activated, so Hound was not sure why he was in there if he was not cleaning himself. Maybe he had already finished. Either way, at least he was nearby. When he came out, Hound could ask him why he was here and perhaps get him to run a scan on his memory block for corrupted sectors. Normally, it might not be so worrying, but Hound rarely ventured here and _certainly_ never stayed _overnight_. They had both agreed a long time ago that it was best if their relationship was not known by anyone, especially given his mate's rank. There was too great a potential that one or both of them could be captured by Decepticons, especially on Earth, and they were not willing to chance their captors choosing to use their relationship against them. What in Primus' name had possessed them to risk it last night?

Hound forced himself to calm - his other half would be out of the wash rack soon enough, and he could get answers then. Hopefully, it was a simple explanation. Hound sighed through his vents, pushed himself the rest of the way into a sitting position, and glanced down—

Oh no.

He stared down at his lap which was slick with dull grey fluid. He ran a finger through it, praying to Primus it was not what he feared it was, but he only had to rub it between his fingers and inhale to recognize the scent as undeniably his own. The fluid was comprised of dead nanites, deactivated from exposure to the environment. Freshly ejected, they would have been vibrant silver, but not anymore, not outside the sterile environment of their reservoir. Why were they there?

A lump of keen dread formed in his fuel tank as he inspected himself further. From what he could see over his engine block, his abdominal plating was still in slight disarray, having not resettled firmly around his ovipositor - the fact that his ovipositor had _clearly_ been out was alarming in itself. He and his mate did not use them when they were intimate - there was no need to expose them, so even if they had interfaced the night before, this still should not have happened. Hound felt more than heard when his fans cycled online to cool his anxiety-overheating body. He did not want to, but he had to check - he had to be positive.

He sent a reluctant command to his abdominal plating to retract, and his ovipositor unfolded from its housing. The injector was still slick with dead nanites, though the mixture was beginning to grow tacky. For the first time in years, extending it did not _hurt_ , and that observation was what made Hound notice that, despite the ache in his processor, his other aches and pains were quickly fading. Nothing hurt the way it had the last quarter vorn since the Autobots' awakening on Earth. The pressure in his abdomen and on his spark was _gone_ , the charge clawing at his circuits was fading, and his mind was growing clearer by the klik. Each observation was more unnerving than the last, but the one which made Hound clap a hand over his mouth in dawning horror was when he had rubbed away the sticky residue from around the injector head of his ovipositor and saw the first scrape of red paint.

His mate was not red.

_Oh, Primus, no..._

The hiss of the wash rack's door sliding open nearly made him jump. Hound jerked his gaze to it, praying to Primus he was mistaken, that he was simply having a bad defrag and would wake up at any klik, but the look of guilt and terror in his mate's optics, the scuffed paint around his abdominal plating, the dried rivulets of silicone sheeting down his legs - it was all too real. This was no dream - this was the terrible reality they had been trying to avoid all their lives.

"We attacked somebody, didn't we?" Wheeljack's voice was thin and shaky. His winglets trembled on his back, and his vocal indicators did little more than blink faintly like a dying firefly.

Hound's voice was no stronger as he answered, "I think we did." He quickly reassembled his abdominal plating so he could reach out to the engineer as Wheeljack stumbled over to him. Together, they huddled in a tight, frightened ball on Wheeljack's berth, curled against and around one another.

"Do...you remember...?" Wheeljack tried hopefully after a long breem of scared silence.

"No," Hound hated to admit. "I...all I remember is leaving the rec room. I'd been fixing one of the lights, and some of the others were watching a movie. I...I remember the pressure was the worst it had ever been, and the movie was distracting me from it. I stayed until it was over, and..." Hound shook his head and tightened his arms around his other half. "I think maybe I was coming to see you to get another dose."

Wheeljack nodded quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur as he responded, "I was in my workshop - that's all I remember, too...if you did come see me, the blocks must have failed on both of us. And when they did..."

Hound rested his chin atop one of Wheeljack's vocal indicators as the other mech fell silent once more. They had dreaded this would happen one orn. They had _begged_ Primus to keep it from happening, but they both knew it was only a matter of time. Their coding had been clawing at them, demanding they succumb ever since they awakened on Earth. A combination of tranquilizers, medicines, and a spark energy sink all made or mixed by Wheeljack had managed to suppress the need for this long, but obviously, their painstaking precautions finally failed.

Their sparks were unique; as cuculids, their sparks were inherently unstable, and the energy levels vacillated almost violently between normal parameters or high and low extremes. Learning how to manage the fluctuations was actually one of the primary reasons why Wheeljack enrolled in the Iaconian Science Academy when he was younger and became an engineer. They needed to learn how to hide themselves among the normal mechs who vastly outnumbered them, and hiding would have been impossible if they continually needed medical attention to stabilize their sparks. Hound supported Wheeljack throughout his mate's studies and worked up to three jobs at once to pay for it. In the long run, the hardship paid off. For their entire lives before and during most of the war, they had been able to all but tame their unstable sparks and keep their true nature hidden.

However, all their efforts came crashing down in failure after failure once the _Ark_ crashed on Earth and forced them into stasis for many vorns. When they awakened, their sparks released so much constant energy they could no longer keep it under control. Energy sinks burned out, tranquilizers had to be increased in dosage to the point that the pair was nearly rendered useless for duty, and on the rare occasions they were able to find the time around their duties, even nightly interfacing to release the excess charge did not lessen it enough. Wheeljack had been forced to cause explosions in his laboratory to mask his using his equipment to siphon his excess energy, and Hound had to take every scouting mission he could just so he could hide in the wilderness and release his own charge into the environment.

The drain was necessary - if they did not find some way to purge the excess, they began to have hardware issues, memory gaps, difficulty concentrating or thinking, collapses, problems processing energon, and any number of other ailments. Every time Wheeljack thought they had figured out a pattern of treatments which worked, something happened to necessitate readjustment at best or completely starting over again at worst. Sometimes it was due to circumstances out of their control such as being captured by the Decepticons on Earth or otherwise being away from the _Ark_ for too long, but sometimes their own energy signatures changed enough that the previous "treatments" no longer worked. It had only grown worse as the years went by. During his little free time and between juggling different treatments, Wheeljack had been trying to determine why their sparks had rebelled against them so severely, and after a decade into their residence on Earth, he finally unraveled the mystery.

The epiphany hit them one orn shortly after Hound had been released from Decepticon captivity. After five orns in the _Victory_ 's brig, the energy build-up inside Hound's spark chamber was alarming, and Wheeljack had to pull rank and claim Hound had been infected by an "unknown energy weapon of Decepticon origin" in order to have his mate isolated with himself as the only officer cleared to treat the scout. Ratchet had not been pleased, but he allowed it due to Wheeljack's expertise in such weaponry as well as the fact that the engineer was a fully certified field medic, just a few credentials away from full medic status. Wheeljack's rank and qualifications were how he had been able to keep their true nature secret for such a long time - he managed to get out of full-schematic scans by saying he would do them himself when he had a spare klik, and he always arranged to be the one to scan Hound. Once the scan was made, all it took was a quick edit on the computer to make their schematics look just like any normal mech's.

Once Hound was isolated appropriately, Wheeljack rarely left his side with the pretense of being over-cautious about the "Decepticon weapon". It took a week of siphoning and medications with Hound rendered delirious the first three orns, but Wheeljack managed to stabilize him. However, he did not succeed before they had one particularly alarming conversation during one of Hound's periods of in-and-out lucidity.

> _"What do you think of Mirage?" Hound asked murkily as Wheeljack replaced the cold packs over the green scout's overheated engine._
> 
> _Wheeljack brightened an optic in puzzlement and shrugged one shoulder as he answered, "He's alright. A bit quiet, but he's always been polite to me. I noticed he's been hangin' around you lately."_
> 
> _"He's lonely," Hound murmured. "He needs somebody he can care about and who'll care about him."_
> 
> _"Well, everybody wants that," Wheeljack responded, only half-listening. He drew a syringe of tropethol and raised it to the light to check the dosage, flicking a finger against it to ensure there were no bubbles. "Here - this should help with the pain from the pressure inside your chamber until I can siphon off some more of the energy." Satisfied with the amount in the syringe, Wheeljack reached down to turn over one of Hound's wrists and eased his hand back to expose the fuel line in the joint._
> 
> _"He'd be a good host," Hound said, and Wheeljack's hand jerked away from the scout's wrist as if it had burned him._
> 
> _For a klik, Wheeljack could only stare at him and hope he had not heard correctly. Hound just met his stare with a flickering one of his own, and it was then that Wheeljack finally noticed his mate's optics were a slightly deeper blue than normal. The color was mesmerizing but emphatically _not_ Hound's - not the Hound _he_ knew. "What did you say?" Wheeljack finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper._
> 
> _Hound gripped the side bars of the medical berth and used them to help himself struggle into a sitting position. Once he was upright, he looked back to Wheeljack and responded, "We're all that's left, 'Jack. As far as we know, we're the last of our kind. I know we don't want the others to find out what we are, but we could keep it secret. And Mirage is lonely anyway - we could give him something to care for." Wheeljack was numb as Hound reached out and coaxed him closer to loop green arms around the engineer's white waist. "He wouldn't be lonely anymore, we wouldn't be the last anymore, and our podling would be safe hidden among the other Autobots." As Hound pressed his nose gently into the cabling of his mate's throat and inhaled his unique scent, Wheeljack's vision began to haze over. His own engorged spark fluttered in its chamber at his mate's words, pulsing heavily in sudden, burning _need_. He felt components inside himself that he had never truly used before suddenly quiver in anticipation, and the plating of his sides began to twitch._
> 
> _Hound moved his face up to nuzzle behind one of Wheeljack's vocal indicators as he continued, "It wouldn't be that hard. He's always alone. We could get him into one of the storage rooms near the front of the ship...no one would ever notice he was missing—" The scout's words cut off in an indignant squawk when Wheeljack abruptly snapped out of his trance and Hound suddenly found a grey fist across his face._

Hound later insisted he remembered nothing of the exchange - well, beyond Wheeljack punching him. However, whether he remembered it or not, it finally explained their sparks' rebellion. It was a desperate bid for survival; their sparks were screaming at them to propagate their subspecies because they knew they were very likely the last of their kind. It was a fact they had been trying not to think about for vorns. Finally acknowledging it made their attempts to ward off the urge even more desperate, but neither could deny they were only delaying the inevitable. Over the years since their revelation, both began to notice an increasing number of blackouts - most only lasted for a few kliks and had, thankfully, mostly just happened when they were unaccompanied by other mechs, but the increased frequency was alarming, and they could only guess what had happened or what they did during their blackouts.

There was only one answer to that question _this_ time.

"Okay," Wheeljack finally said, his voice not much steadier than before. "Okay. Sittin' here and shakin' ain't gonna fix this." His vocalizer buzzed in a half-sparked, humorless laugh. "Not that anythin' can really _fix_ it." He shook his head and pulled away from Hound so he could look over the other mech briefly before he reached out to tug Hound up. "Let's get cleaned up and think about this." Hound nodded and stood with him to return to the wash rack.

"Who do you think...?" Hound started to ask but could not bring himself to finish, his spark once again quailing with the horror and despair that this was actually _happening_. All their desperate preparations and struggles were ultimately for naught.

"...I don't know," Wheeljack reluctantly admitted. Hound watched numbly as his mate activated the sprayer and calculated the right mix of solvents and cleansers to mix with the water which would dislodge the combination of dead nanites and silicone coating their plating. "I'm hopin' we have enough paint transfers to figure out who it might have been."

"I saw red paint on mine," Hound immediately said, hopeful for all of five nanokliks. He did not need the despaired look Wheeljack gave him to know "red paint" was not helpful. There were far too many mechs who sported red paint aboard the _Ark_ \- Blaster, Cliffjumper, Ironhide, Sideswipe, Red Alert, Inferno, Powerglide, Perceptor, Gears, and that was just those who were painted red as their _primary_ color. Paint transfers could have come from any part of the mech they attacked, which added Windcharger, Ratchet, _all_ of the Aerialbots, and even Optimus Prime himself to the list of potential victims. Even the Dinobots were painted red in places, and though Hound tried to assure himself that their size alone rendered them very unlikely victims, if he was honest with himself, he and Wheeljack would not have necessarily had to overpower them to attack them. Wheeljack's relationship with the Dinobots as their caretaker and mentor would have made it easy to catch even the enormous Sludge off-guard.

"Let's...Let's start washing up," Hound suggested weakly. "Maybe some other colors transferred." Once Wheeljack nodded, Hound stepped forward into the spray so they could help one another.

Hound insisted on cleaning his mate first and kneeled so he could see as much of the engineer's relevant plating as possible. As Wheeljack turned his back to the spray, the roof of his vehicular mode shifted out, split down the middle, then parted and moved up over his shoulders to give his claspers room to unfold. The plating of his sides shifted in a wave of metal, wires, and metallic mesh before the metal support ribs just under his plating unlocked from their anchors underneath his chest, and his sides spread open like a flower in bloom, opening as wide as he could. The tapered points of the support bars angled forward and in and, once fully open, Wheeljack's internal components were fully exposed, framed by grasping claws ready to clamp down on any mech who found himself between them and hold him in place.

Hound knew he had nothing to fear as he settled onto his knees in front of his mate, his head framed by the engineer's sinister, beautiful, gaping torso. He had helped Wheeljack clean his internals countless times during their long vorns together and knew exactly how to care for the delicate inner workings from the other mech's circuitry and wiring to his base protoform to the sensitive connections around his spark chamber. Hound was silent as he slid one black hand up Wheeljack's white thigh to rest on his hip and smiled softly up at him, hoping to reassure the frightened mech that they would make it through this.

The green scout carefully cleaned the leftover residue of inactive nanite fluid and peeled away thin, nearly invisible film of silicone leftover from Wheeljack's own specialized ovipositor. Illuminated by the light from Wheeljack's spark as it shined through its casing, the film was easy to see and remove, a fact for which Hound was glad. He had only ever seen it once before, shortly after they both finished growing into their final upgrades. They had both grown a little too rambunctious in the berth that orn and had engaged their propagation systems despite not having a third mech available to house their reproductive materials. As a result, when Wheeljack's brand new clasper system engaged and clamped down on Hound, the silicone and nanites really had nowhere else to go but on, in, and around them. The resultant mess had taken...a while to clean.

They had been extremely cautious not repeat their carelessness ever since, not only to avoid being discovered but also because they had vowed they would never engage their propagation systems. They had both been determined that they would live their existence completely as normal, non-cuculid mechs, including, if the opportunity presented itself, raising a true sparkling the way normal mechs did. Both vividly remembered their podlinghood, even megavorns later, and neither wished to subject anyone to such an existence - neither podling nor host mech.

Hound's host, a mechanic named Scorch, had particular difficulty in raising Hound and especially in hiding what he truly was. Although Scorch had tried to keep even Hound from knowing his true nature in an attempt to forget what had happened to himself entirely, the marked difference in the way Hound grew compared to a non-cuculid mechlet made it impossible. Normal mechlets were either kindled by Vector Sigma himself or by the spark energy of a loving pair of equally normal mechs; thus, their designation as _spark_ lings. To grow, they were placed in a small protoform and then transferred to upgraded, sometimes pre-manufactured bodies at various stages of their sparks' development until adulthood. Hound's body, powered by nanites leftover from his pod, upgraded itself and grew on its own at the cost of needing to consume triple to quadruple the amount of energon even Scorch required for normal function.

Scorch had not been financially stable even before he was attacked and implanted, and Hound was blamed for every financial hardship during his development. More than a few times, Hound remembered being conveniently separated from his host in busy markets or taken to dark sections of the city to be left behind only for Scorch to be compelled to find him once more, coerced, as Hound discovered much later, by his attackers' tampering with his spark. It forced him to care for Hound, if not care _about_ him, until he was capable of caring for himself. The abuse had always been verbal or simple neglect, never physical, but despite it all, Hound still loved his host even knowing Scorch would never love him.

He and Wheeljack met by sheer chance - at least, Hound thought so. The hardship of keeping both Hound and himself fed had finally grown so bad that Scorch was evicted for his inability to pay for their housing. The increased stress drove Scorch to schedule a trip to Praxus to search for work, and it was during that trip that they made a detour to the famous Praxan crystal gardens. Mechs from all around Cybertron trekked to the gardens to allow their shifting colors and soft, musical tones to soothe their fears and ease their turmoil. Scorch knew he needed to be in a calmer state of mind in order to be successful finding better work, so he felt the detour would be worth it.

Scorch had almost left Hound in their hostel that orn to visit the gardens alone but changed his mind as he was leaving, Hound assumed because Scorch had thought to make another attempt to abandon him there. Whatever the reason for changing his mind, they went together and stumbled across another single-sire and mechlet - Downshift and Wheeljack. Hound had not understood it then, but reflecting back on the meeting later, he realized Scorch and Downshift somehow immediately knew they shared a connection, that they were looking at a fellow victim of Cybertron's monsters in the dark. At the same time, Hound and Wheeljack, despite their youth, instantly felt a connection as well, though they had not understood it at the time. Hound, who had always felt awkward and out of place around other mechlets, had immediately wanted to play with the new stranger.

Within three orns, Scorch and Hound had moved into Downshift's home at the older mech's behest. Downshift was a business mech and was easily able to afford Wheeljack's upkeep and, as such, help Scorch with Hound's. The expense was worth it to _finally_ be able to confide in and find comfort with a fellow cuculid victim. Likewise, Hound and Wheeljack found companionship and playmates in each other, and as they grew, their hosts covertly coaxed them into spending more and more time together. It had been unnecessary, really - their personalities complemented one another very well, and it had not taken any suggestions or coercion from their hosts for the pair to move from being just friends and housemates to simply mates. By the time Hound and Wheeljack were nearly fully grown, they had grown so independent of their hosts and accustomed to only having one another and that they had not noticed the ever-growing distance between themselves and their hosts until, one orn, they returned from the market to find the apartment empty. They never saw their hosts again.

Hound's spark ached at the thought of forcing that experience on anyone, podling or host. Wheeljack claimed Downshift had not been quite so blatantly rejecting or emotionally abusive as Scorch, but he had still known his entire podlinghood that Downshift had not wanted him. It spoke volumes that their hosts fled without a word the nanoklik their sparks allowed them and they were no longer compelled to care for their unwanted parasites.

Parasites - it was a word they never used but had always known themselves to be and had tried their best to _cease_ being ever since their hosts disappeared. 

"We have to figure out who it was," Wheeljack said needlessly as Hound stood, finished with cleaning him. He folded in his claspers once more and rearranged his chest plating until he was once again a normal mech in appearance. 

"I know," Hound sighed. "I didn't see any other colors, though - a little red on your pelvic plating, but otherwise, it looks like you left more paint on him than he left on you." As he spoke, he unfolded his abdominal plating again, and from underneath the cumbersome engine of his alt mode, Hound's two much thinner pincers swept up and curled slightly over his shoulders. Likewise, the two hidden in his sides unfurled and relaxed, all four now exposed for inspection but also out of the way while Wheeljack cleaned him. Hound's propagation system was much less elaborate than his mate's; at least, the pincers and claspers necessary to hold the host in place were - that was Wheeljack's "job". Hound's pincers were more of a back-up assurance.

In place of Wheeljack's claspers which more closely resembled a bear trap, Hound possessed a much more specialized and ornate ovipositor. Wheeljack's was shorter but more flexible, able to slide easily between a mech's dermal plating and ease between vital internal components without damaging them. In contrast, Hound's was longer, thinner, and segmented just enough to allow it to be hidden away inside him easily but also to be allowed enough leverage to pierce a mech's plating with the sharp, needle-like injector tip.

Truthfully, if asked, neither mech had much of an idea of how their own anatomy really worked, especially once a third mech was put between them. As with any victim of their kind, neither Scorch nor Downshift remembered anything of being attacked or the process by which the pods were implanted, only the aftermath. Hound and Wheeljack only knew _what_ their different systems did - Hound was to inject the necessary nanites into the silicone pod Wheeljack placed inside the host - but not _how_ it worked, and they had always hoped never to _need_ to know.

"All I'm seein' is red," Wheeljack said as he carefully cleaned Hound's thankfully rather insensitive injector tip. "Not much of it, though. Tip actually looks like it bent or even broke a little. Maybe it couldn't get through and tried a different spot. That would seem to indicate thicker plating than average." Once Hound had retracted his now clean ovipositor, Wheeljack moved his attention to his mate's pincers. "Still red on the bottom two." As Wheeljack stood and inspected the upper two pincers, the light of his optics dulled slightly in what Hound had grown to associate with a frown on his mouthless companion. "Looks like some white paint here...but that might be mine."

"It probably is. You have a few scratches on your right shoulder." Hound reached out with his left pincer to trace the tip over the largest scratch. Unfortunately, given Wheeljack's careless attitude toward his own appearance, it was impossible to tell which scratches were from Hound's pincers and which were simply from either his tendency to intentionally cause explosions in his laboratory to hide his spark energy purges or his propensity toward off-road stunt driving to let off excess energy. "The red's probably going to be our only clue," Hound said as he refolded his own plating. Thicker plating did not narrow down anyone - everyone had thick, armored plating due to the war. Yes, some had plating thicker or more heavily armored than others, but military-grade armored plating was still standard issue and not something his ovipositor was originally designed to penetrate. Even the mech with the thinnest armor aboard the _Ark_ could have damaged the injector tip.

"We _have_ to figure it out," Wheeljack insisted. "We swore we'd never do this to perfect strangers, but these mechs are our _friends_." He looked down at the floor and watched the mixture of cleansing solution, water, and the last remnants of their guilt swirl down the drain for a klik before he asked, "What are we gonna do when we find him, though?" As he asked, he turned up the heat on the spray and grabbed a cleaning rag to coat liberally in soap. Now that the deep, internal cleaning was finished and they had determined there were no additional paint transfers to identify, they could turn their attention to making themselves presentable for duty while they talked. "I don't know if I could face him again knowing what we've done to him."

Hound lathered cleanser on his own rag and raised it to his mate's chest, moving it in slow, wide circles to soothe the slightly smaller mech as Wheeljack returned the attention. "Me neither. But there's also the fact that, once he clutches, everyone will _know_ we're hiding among them. They'll be on the lookout, and they'll probably flush us out before long."

Wheeljack remained silent at first, focusing on the thickening lather under his hand and the gleam of Hound's green plating as he carefully chose his next words. After a klik, he finally spoke again, his voice soft with not just a little fright, "It would probably best in the long run if we confess before it comes to that."

Hound stiffened under Wheeljack's hands, but he did not protest. The prospect of admitting their deception, of confessing to be the monsters they were, was terrifying beyond words. The instinct to stay hidden, to remain invisible and keep the normal mechs believing their kind to be extinct, was hard-wired into their base programming and core functionality down to the very last line of code. His spark screamed at him to disagree, to insist they find another way, _any_ other way. The thought of even one mech learning their true nature sent unbidden images of the two of them needing to flee the _Ark_ and hide in the shadows for the rest of their lives just like their ancestors likely had or else face their own deaths.

Generations of instinctual fear and distrust squeezed Hound's spark in a vice, but through it, he still knew his mate was right. However accidental and unwillingly, they hurt one of their friends. Admitting their guilt and doing what they could to rectify the situation was not simply the _Autobot_ thing to do. Even if they had attacked a Decepticon, however unlikely, it was simply the _right_ thing to do.

"He won't be able to say anything about it to anyone," Hound finally responded once he found his voice again. "He won't even be able to show anything's wrong - just like Downshift and Scorch. But we can figure this out. There have to be more clues - we'll find them." He gave his other half a weak half-smile. "You're the smartest mech on this ship, and modesty aside, I'm one of the Autobots' best trackers. Together, we'll find him."

Wheeljack finally looked up from where he had been staring at Hound's engine block for the past several kliks to meet the green mech's optics. "And we'll confess. Whoever he was, he deserves to know first."

Hound nodded. "When he clutches, we'll take the pod. He won't have to raise our mistake."

"They'll probably exile us, you know. I...I don't think Optimus would have us killed - I hope not. He's not..." Wheeljack released a shuddering sigh, unable to finish that thought. Optimus Prime always preached about equal rights and second chances - for _normal_ mechs. Wheeljack shook his head. "But exile for sure. And you remember how much fuel we needed to develop."

"Don't forget how many energy sources there are on this planet," Hound assured him. "The best one is in the sky. All we need is to take a solar energy converter or two with us, and we're set anywhere on Earth."

Wheeljack let out a soft huff through his vents, a short, nervous laugh as he tried to lighten the oppressing mood. "Your dream come true, huh? You'll finally have an excuse to do nothin' but splash around in the mud and become one with nature." He scoffed and reached up to swipe the cleaning rag lightly over his mate's nose. "I'm _not_ gonna keep you clean."

Hound grinned. "Oh, like you wouldn't have a blast trying to rig the converter to absorb lightning during storms once you finally _could_. I know Perceptor's been shooting down your proposal for years."

"...maybe." Wheeljack reached up to unhook the sprayer from its housing. They both fell silent for a breem, each lost in his own thoughts and fears as they slowly accepted their future. It was not the future they had always envisioned, but they could make it work together, and at least their podling would grow wanted with them, if still a pariah.

"Just promise me you won't try to teach him to talk to rabbits."

"I promise _nothing_."


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_11:15  
+2 days, 9 hours, 3 minutes_ **

Hound swore softly and gently rubbed his nose with the back of one hand as he tried in vain to pinpoint and isolate the many different and muddled scents surrounding him. The _Ark_ 's atmosphere was _still_ overwhelmingly charged with static which left his olfactory sensors in turmoil. Most attempts to discern one scent from the next were met with either an error message or a painful shock straight up his nose, sometimes both, and it rendered the one sense he relied on the most nearly useless. The few times he _could_ separate one mech's scent from another and identify it, the information was not helpful. Such inability to reliably use his primary tracking ability would have been frustrating enough under normal circumstances. Now, it was downright _infuriating_.

The scout crouched beside another large container and tried again, cringing at the by now familiar zap. The atmosphere had improved over the last four orns since the solar flare, but it was still charged enough to give him excessive difficulty, not to mention a _very_ sore nose. He persisted, though - he had to. It was all he could do in order to hopefully discover the identity of whoever he and Wheeljack attacked.

The number of potential victims was nauseating. With their unique anatomy which was designed specifically to subdue and restrain a potential host, they could have grabbed almost literally anyone. The smaller the mech, the more likely he was, but they still could not overlook others. The few streaks of red paint they found on Hound narrowed down the choices slightly, but truly, the only mechs they could be positive they had not attacked were the Protectobots, who had only returned from their relief efforts on the East coast in the last few cycles, and the Dinobots, who Hound and Wheeljack were quite certain they had no chance of restraining no matter their anatomical advantages. That only removed ten mechs from the equation - not even Optimus Prime was entirely out of the realm of possibility if only by virtue of his having _red_ paint.

_Why couldn't we have picked somebody **blue**?_ Hound grumbled inwardly as he sniffed around the container. _That would have narrowed it down a **lot**. Mirage, Smokescreen, Beachcomber, Prime, or Tracks._ He sighed. They could rule out everyone who had no scrap of red paint on them beyond their Autobot sigils, such as Mirage, Bumblebee, and Brawn, but unfortunately, it did not rule out their best friends. _Soon to be **ex** -best friends..._

Hound's spark ached when he reminded himself of that fact - time was slowly but steadily ticking down to when he and Wheeljack would need to leave behind everything they had known for nearly countless vorns. He had met Trailbreaker in the Iaconian War Academy during their accelerated training to fight in the war shortly after it started. The large mech had been the first normal mech Hound had ever felt truly comfortable around. Trailbreaker had almost immediately taken to him and made it a habit to seek out Hound for company, and though Hound was pensive at first, afraid of making a possibly fatal mistake, Wheeljack had encouraged him to kindle the friendship, citing that Hound needed someone to talk to other than him. Wheeljack had already had Ratchet in that sense from his extensive pre-war medical training back before Wheeljack officially majored in engineering and chemistry. Even when Wheeljack changed focuses - and, thus, schools from the Academy of Medicine to the Science Academy - he had kept in touch with Ratchet. The medic became an important part of Wheeljack's life, and he felt Hound needed someone similar in his, especially with the war going on and their agreement to keep their relationship a secret.

Hound had to admit he was right. When he finally allowed himself to open up to Trailbreaker, he benefited greatly from the soft-spoken mech's friendship. He found himself opening up to Trailbreaker in ways he only had with Wheeljack, told him things he never told his mate. Any mention of Scorch and his unhappy mechlethood was, of course, carefully truncated and worded to sound as if Hound had been a Sparked mechlet, but regardless of the completeness of the tales, simply having someone to confide in did wonders for Hound's psyche once he met Trailbreaker. It was only through their friendship that the scout finally learned how to open up to other mechs, how to view strangers without instant, instinctual suspicion and contempt, and now, he was known as the friendliest Autobot, willing to lend anyone a kind word or a shoulder to lean on. 

The knowledge that Hound was going to have to leave Trailbreaker behind once he and Wheeljack revealed their true nature broke his spark, but even worse was the idea that the damage would not stop there. The mere thought that he may have hurt his best friend, that _Trailbreaker_ may have been who they attacked, made Hound physically ill.

Hound shook his head and tried to refocus his efforts. Dwelling on sorrows to come would not help anything. He knew what was going to happen, and nothing would ease the pain once it did. The best he could manage for now was not to let it get to him yet. With one more sigh, he knelt again to endure the next zap of static.

It was easy enough to convince Red Alert that he needed to investigate in his own way around the _Ark_. Hound only needed to give him two reasons - first, that he needed to recalibrate his olfactory sensors as the static in the atmosphere faded, which was true regardless, and second, that he was searching for the scents of Soundwave's little spy brigade while the security grid was down. The latter was not Hound's true goal, but if he happened to stumble across Ravage's scent anyway, there was no sense in wasting an opportunity to halt a possible incursion. Red Alert knew Hound was unmatched in his ability to track and flush out the Decepticon cassettes, so he had not argued. He did not have to know Hound was actually attempting to cross-reference his and his mate's scent with their victim's in order to pinpoint his identity.

Hound knew he and Wheeljack had not taken their victim into Wheeljack's quarters despite their awakening there. Once he had gotten through the static that first orn and managed to identify _anyone_ 's scent, the only scents other than their own in the engineer's quarters were too old. Hound's quarters only held his own scent and Trailbreaker's - nothing to indicate Wheeljack had entered at any point that night. Hound could not recall his mate ever entering his quarters, really, but that was understandable and part of their attempts to disguise their relationship. After all, it was much more normal for the scout to see the head engineer about something in private than for the nearly pacifistic engineer to confer with a scout in his personal quarters.

Unfortunately, with their private quarters ruled out, the possibilities were almost endless. It had taken Hound two orns to narrow down possible areas to the storage rooms near the back of the ship and the hangar, and the problems with those areas were many. First and foremost was the fact that they smelled like _everybody_. If he found a place where his scent crossed with Wheeljack's, either one of their scents were too old, the potential victim's was too old, or there were five other mechs' scents crossing theirs in the same spot. The second problem, particularly with the hangar area, was that it was exposed to the elements of the Mount St. Hilary area. Dust, grass, dirt, fur, feathers, leaves, and any other detritus was blown in by the wind or carried in by curious animals or even by Autobots' tires and feet. Discernible scents did not last long in the hangar, a fact of which Hound was frustratingly reminded now.

The leftover static did not help either.

" _Slag_!" he swore as he grabbed his nose and jerked back from his crouch to curl in on himself slightly. That one was particularly painful. Hound wondered if...yes, frag it all, that last zap had completely fried a few of his olfactory sensors. He would need to get that repaired in order to get any usable results from his efforts, which meant _more_ wasted time. The more time they lost, the less likely their chances of figuring out who they attacked before he expelled the pod, and Wheeljack was rightly worried that if they did not confess before then, they would be shown much less mercy.

Hound let out a frustrated sigh, pushed himself to his feet, and headed back inside so he could get his sensors fixed. The hangar was a waste of time - even if this was where it happened, the scents were too jumbled, overlaid with static, or damaged by the environment to provide answers. At this point, they were going to have to hope Wheeljack's idea panned out.

Truthfully, they knew very little about how their own bodies worked or how they accomplished the implantation process for which their kind was so feared. They just knew the very basics: Wheeljack extruded the silicone material to form the pod, Hound injected it with the appropriate nanite solution to form the podling's protoform, and they both joined sparks with the host both to ignite the podling's spark as well as to coerce the host's silence and make him care for the podling. The "how" part was an enigma, and both were quite certain they could not accomplish it if they actually tried to do it on purpose, at least not without a lot of confusion and fumbling. The only reason they had succeeded was they had apparently run completely off of instinct once their restraints failed.

However, because they _knew_ their sparks were involved, Wheeljack had a theory that they might be able to detect the remnant spark energy in the air with a correctly calibrated scanner if they could just narrow down _where_ it happened. Unfortunately, now that Hound had narrowed the location to "storage rooms or the hangar", calibrating such a scanner was taking too long. Either Wheeljack had to hide his work regularly to prevent questions, he needed to recalibrate it because it was not detecting the appropriate wavelength or correct kind of energy, or he had to disassemble it because its components were needed elsewhere, usually in the still-ongoing repairs to the security grid. The engineer estimated that if he did not get the scanner finished and use it within the next orn or two, there would be no chance of it succeeding. Even if they had managed to subdue their victim in the most remote, least traveled storage room in the entire _Ark_ , any remnant spark energy would have faded completely.

Hound's next idea was that he might be able to detect a change in a mech's scent once the pod was implanted, or even find his own scent and Wheeljack's lingering on him. He had every Autobot's scent memorized, not only to find them should they be captured or disappear but also to detect the presence of chemicals, incendiaries, imposters, or any number of other Decepticon tricks. The problem with that plan was, again, the static leftover from the geomagnetic storm. That, and it was rather rude to go around sniffing his fellow Autobots as closely as would be necessary to detect the pod, particularly without explanation. Even if it _was_ socially acceptable, Hound had to wonder if he would really smell anything other than fear. Any other time, fear would have been an excellent indicator, but not with the security grid down for as long as it had been. Everyone was on-edge and jumping at shadows and would be until the grid was finally fully repaired and everything was back to normal.

Hound's only other suggestion had been one he willingly admitted was simply wishful thinking. He had hoped they might feel some sort of pull to their developing podling, something that would say, "Here I am, in this mech." He had not entertained the idea much longer than the first half-orn, however; after all, it went against their nature. Cuculids implanted and disappeared - they knew that much. Why would there exist a pull to a podling they, instinctively, should have nothing to do with?

"Frustrating" was not strong enough a word. They wanted desperately to rectify the mess they caused, to do whatever they could to find and make amends to the friend - former friend - they hurt so badly, but _nothing_ was working to their advantage. 

Hound glanced around when he finally reached the medbay and was not just a little relieved to see his mate was the only mech present, tinkering with the scanner as he had been the last few times Hound saw him. "Hey," the scout said to get his attention as he stepped over to him. "I burnt out some sensors. Got a klik?"

"Ouch." Wheeljack winced and stood after putting the scanner into a drawer. "'Course I do. Sit down over there." 

As Hound did as he was told and sat on an exam table, the scout switched to their private communications frequency; there was no way to tell currently whether the security cameras and microphones in the infirmary were working or not at that klik, but even if they were not, there was no sense in being careless. They had not survived and remained hidden for this long to fall out of habit now. < _Where are the others?_ >

< _Ratchet and Hoist are with Prime and Prowl debriefin' 'Aid and the rest of his team,_ > Wheeljack answered as he searched for the right diagnostic scanner for the tiny sensors of Hound's olfactory suite. < _It's takin' a while since they were already outta here when the solar flare hit, so they're also gettin' briefed on all the slag that's been going down here while they were gone. And Swoop's out scoutin' with Silverbolt, so I'm on duty until somebody says otherwise._ >

< _Weren't you scheduled two orns ago for the night shift tonight?_ > Hound asked, watching his mate move from the equipment caddy to the supply closet for whatever else he needed to perform the repair.

< _Yeah, but Ratchet's been takin' the night shift here lately,_ > the engineer answered over his noisy rummaging through the medical supplies. < _Says he gets more done and that Hoist and I can handle the surgeries. I think it gives him too much time on his hands since he keeps slaggin' things up in here. I mean, seriously, why in Primus' name does he keep rearrangin' everythin' every slaggin' orn? Sure, it makes more sense to arrange the clamps by size than the way they were before, but really, this is the third fraggin' time he's rearranged the pain meds - first by name, then by recommended dosage, and now by amount we've got left. He's messin' with my zen thing, man._ > He let out an audible frustrated huff through his vents. < _But I hate night shift, so I ain't gonna complain. Yet._ > He finally emerged armed with the right scanner, a syringe, and a vial he was shaking to mix its contents as he walked back over to Hound who made a face at the sight of the needle. Wheeljack returned it with an amused snort. < _Mechlet. How goes the search? Any luck?_ >

< _No,_ > Hound sighed. < _Fragging static's really screwing me up, and none of the scents I **can** separate make sense or correlate right. And, in the hangar's case, pretty much any usable scent was gone yesterday._ > Aloud, he said both for his own benefit and for the benefit of anyone who might have been watching through the cameras if they _were_ working, leaning back slightly from the approaching engineer, " _Please_ tell me you're not going to stick that thing up my nose. I can live with some burnt out sensors if a needle up my nose is the alternative."

"No, I just do that with screwdrivers," came the bland response. Wheeljack waved the syringe menacingly at his mate. " _This_ goes into the primary fuel line behind your skidplate."

"...seriously?"

Wheeljack made an exasperated huff of his vents. "No, of course not. Were you designed this gullible, or did you take lessons?"

"I took lessons."

"And Ratchet complains about the twins." The engineer shook his head and resumed mixing the contents of the vial in his other hand, slipping into the two-way conversation with the ease of experience. This was by far not the first time he and Hound had held two separate conversations before. It was something they perfected a long time ago. < _You couldn't find **anything** usable? Not even a hint?_ >

< _'Fraid not. Everywhere I managed to finally find matches where our scents crossed, there was an issue with the age of the scents, or too many other mechs also crossed. And the mechs who did mostly didn't make sense as matches - like, I found a perfect match in one of the back storage areas, but it was with **Rewind**._ >

< _Can't be him. Blaster would have detected something the last time Rewind docked, he's the wrong colors, and...Primus, we probably woulda killed him._ > Wheeljack suppressed a faint shudder and set the vial and syringe down beside Hound's leg so he could use both hands on the scanner. With one hand, he plugged it into the medical port in the scout's shoulder, then used the other to run its scanning light over Hound's face. "Tilt your head back a little. Once I've identified the damaged sensors, I'll know how much of this to give you."

"I'm more worried about _where_ you're going to give it to me," Hound grumbled but did as he was told, holding still.  < _Exactly. So that at least rules out Blaster's bitlets, thank Primus. Still too many others, though._ > He shifted his gaze to look down at his other half. < _What about your project? Think you'll finish it in time to get any readings?_ >

"Spare me your trypanophobia, Hound. It'll be over before you even realize I jabbed you." Wheeljack tapped a few keys on the scanner before he looked over its readout. < _No - it's just a waste of time at this point. I wouldn't be able to get anythin' useful by the time I finished it, so I'm tryin' to wire it instead to check for irregular fuel drains. Problem there is I'll have to come up with an excuse to hook it up to everyone, but if I can finish it and run it by Ratchet, it **should** give us an idea of who's carryin' the pod by way of showin' the drain on his fuel tank._ >

< _Do you think the drain will be that noticeable?_ > Hound asked, his spark lifting a little.

< _Not sure yet,_ > Wheeljack reluctantly admitted. < _Hope so, but maybe not this soon after it was implanted. Won't know 'til I try, though._ > Aloud, he said, "Alright. I've overridden your self-repair queue and given the nanites in the right sector specific instructions for repairin' those sensors. _This_ —" He lifted the syringe and vial and resisted the urge to snicker when Hound's optics fixated on the needle as it glinted in the light. "—will give 'em a boost so they'll work overtime and get it fixed by this time tomorrow." He moved his attention to the implements in his hands and jabbed the needle into the vial to extract the appropriate amount.

"And it goes...where...?" Hound squeaked, and the squeak, amusingly, carried over to his private frequency. < _When do you think it'll be ready?_ >

< _I'm hopin' in the next two orns. Really, the problem is comin' up with a good enough reason to use it that Ratchet will approve of it **and** let me do it. If I make my reasonin' sound too dire, he'll want to do it himself, an' then who knows if I'll get to see the results._ > "Just in the fuel line in your neck, you big mechlet. Tilt that head back again, and you won't see it comin'. But do _not_ twitch the way you did last time - you don't want me to have to dig a broken needle out of your neck again, do you?"

" _No_!"

"Then sit _still_." Wheeljack kept one hand firmly on the top of Hound's head to keep it tilted at the angle he wanted it while the other quickly injected the booster serum. Hound let out the most pitiful whine Wheeljack had ever heard both from mechkind and organics, but he _did_ sit perfectly still as he was told. Once he was finished, Wheeljack was silent for a few kliks as he disposed of or put away his equipment, and he was very quiet when he finally "spoke" again, his back to his mate.

< _I figured out why our precautions failed._ >

Hound's attention was immediately and fully on him, his hand falling still where he had been rubbing his neck. < _Why?_ >

< _We were two of the only five Autobots who went offline durin' the solar flare,_ > Wheeljack answered. < _It was the geomagnetic energy overload. It fried our energy sinks, and that time we were offline gave our sparks the last...push they needed to take over._ > He raised a hand to cover his optics, hiding from his own shame. < _I should have **known** that would happen._ >

< _Hey,_ > Hound quickly interrupted. < _You had no way to know the flare was going to be that strong. You weren't the only one analyzing it when we knew it was coming. Perceptor and Skyfire didn't know it would be that strong either—_ >

< _**Perceptor** and **Skyfire** don't know **our** systems the way **I** do!_ > Wheeljack snapped, whirling to face him. < _I've been studyin' our systems for **vorns** , Hound - I know what we can take, what we can't, what will and won't keep our sparks under control...yes, they've been actin' weird ever since we woke up from stasis, but I still shoulda **suspected** somethin' would happen! I shoulda tried to take precautions, come up with a contingency plan - **something**!_ > Shivering, his "voice" lowered as he lost momentum and the anger left only bitter emptiness. < _But I didn't. I **didn't** , and look what we've **done**._ > His voice fell to a whimper. < _This is all my fault._ >

Hound was off of the table and had closed the distance between himself and his mate before Wheeljack said the first word of his last sentence, and he had pulled his other half into a tight embrace by the time Wheeljack finished. Slag the cameras - Hound was beyond caring if they were working and witnessed him comforting his mate. Let them. Let Red Alert wonder. All he cared about now was stopping the engineer's emotional downward spiral.

< _It is **not** your fault,_ > Hound insisted. < _You said yourself years ago that this was going to happen. We couldn't stop it - we could only delay it. Those were **your** words, and we accepted that a long time ago. Yes, we hoped it could wait until a better time; we planned to reveal ourselves under better circumstances than this. But life rarely works out the way we hope...we know that better than anyone. Maybe you could have postponed it longer; maybe you postponed it too long already. None of that matters, now, 'Jack. What matters is fixing it before it's too late, and we can do this. We can fix this - we **will** fix this._ > Hound pressed helm against Wheeljack's as he fell quiet, and they just stood for a long few breems in silence, holding one another and forgetting about the cameras, about the other Autobots who may have walked in at any klik, about anyone but the mech in one another's arms and the mech they wronged so severely and still had to find.

And if anyone did see them, all they probably thought was it was just Hound being Hound - ever-friendly and comforting and compassionate as he had, as far as they were concerned, always been.

—

**_21:21  
+9 days, 19 hours, 9 minutes_ **

"What do you think of Centralia?"

"Mm?" Hound murmured in response, not looking up from his work. "Where's that?"

"Pennsylvania," Wheeljack answered distractedly, focused on his own work. Hound's last scouting assignment that orn had ended early as the green mech had not anticipated the mountainous terrain a few kliks east of the _Ark_ to be as unstable as it actually was. A mountain path he had driven more times than he could count finally succumbed to erosion and had crumbled beneath him. Thankfully, the slope was not steep, and he had not suffered much in the way of damage during his roll down the mountainside aside from a few dents and scrapes, but his landing had been cushioned by a particularly dense swath of vines growing along the rocks, many of which were still tangled in the joints of his knees and ankles.

The rather embarrassing tumble and entanglement had rendered Hound unable to transform, and the resultant long walk back to the _Ark_ had been annoying, to say the least. So, rather than going straight to the medbay, the green scout sulked all the way to his mate's quarters where both were now reclined comfortably on the berth in a tangle of limbs. Each mech had the other's feet in his lap, Wheeljack so he could work carefully at cleaning the snarl of vegetation trapped in Hound's ankle struts and Hound simply to have something to do with his hands while his mate concentrated. Before the last week and a half, Hound would not have dreamed of traversing so blatantly to the engineer's quarters. Even now, he had almost been horrified with himself for doing so after nearly countless vorns of keeping their relationship a secret, but as Wheeljack said, there was really no point in hiding it anymore. Not with their uncertain future lingering so closely on the horizon.

"Isn't that the place that was cleared out because of the fire in the coal mine?" Hound asked. As Wheeljack used a scraper and a pair of tiny forceps to carefully pull vegetation out of the green scout's ankles, Hound kept himself occupied by gently rubbing and massaging the cabling and wiring of the engineer's own legs. Every few kliks, he extracted his fingers from the plating of Wheeljack's leg to press his thumbs into that of his feet, rubbing firm but gentle circles against the seams. "When was that? Sixty-something?"

"1962, yeah," his mate replied. "It's been a ghost town for decades - only ten humans still lived there a few years ago, and Byrnesville nearby is completely abandoned. Coal fire's gonna keep burnin' for at least another quarter of a century - we can harvest the underground heat for energon." Wheeljack pulled a strip of vine free and set it aside. "No one would ever find us there."

Hound nodded thoughtfully as he moved his fingers back into Wheeljack's leg to continue massaging the cables. "Sounds like a good idea. But what if one of the conditions of our exile is that we can't even be in the same country as the others, even all the way across the country?"

It was a conversation they had been avoiding. Whenever one decided to be brave and bring up their uncertain fate, the other was muted by fear and fled. However, after nine orns of searching for who they attacked with no results, both finally were able to admit to themselves that they were out of time. They needed to discuss their future, no matter how uncertain and frightening it was. Wheeljack calculated their odds of being simply exiled at around seventy-two percent. They were holding out hope that Optimus would consider their megavorns of devotion and not insubstantial efforts in support of the Autobot Cause and would just banish them to the reaches of Earth to be forgotten. The other twenty-eight percent encompassed the unthinkable but, if it came down to it, unsurprising second option: execution. If their assault and use of their comrade, whoever he may have been, was deemed reprehensible, then the officers might let fear and uncertainty guide their decision.

The entire situation was their worst nightmare come true, but nothing could change the past. All they could do now was hope for the best: to be exiled with their podling to never interact with their fellow Cybertronians again. After all, no matter the circumstances of their creation, no matter that they never would have chosen to be what they were, they were still monsters. They expected, and probably deserved, no better, just as Scorch had always told Hound.

"Well, do you have any ideas?" Wheeljack asked. "It has to be somewhere we won't be seen and possibly photographed by humans. Exile means exile - we need to be able to disappear." He lifted the foot in his lap and moved it aside. "Done with that one - gimme the other and roll this one around to make sure I didn't miss anythin'."

Hound did as he was told as he, too, switched feet and pressed his thumbs into the plating seams of Wheeljack's other foot. "How about the Amazon? If we go deep enough, no one will _ever_ know we're there, and we can use the river. Sections flow fast enough to generate adequate hydroelectric currents in the right energon harvester. Plus, we'll never have to worry about winter."

Wheeljack gave him the most bland expression he could manage - which was a feat considering his lack of a conventional face. "Do you _want_ to rust alive? Primus, Hound." He shook his head and moved his attention back to his task.

"You asked me! I'm not the scientist here."

"But you _do_ have a processor in that thickly plated helm of yours." Wheeljack gave an exasperated huff of his vents and grumbled, "The Amazon...seriously. You just want a jaguar for a pet."

"Actually, that hadn't even occurred to me, but now that you mention it..." Hound grinned at the half-glare that earned him. "I sure wouldn't object to learning how to talk to all the birds there."

The engineer buzzed out a snort. "Bein' serious, though, you did make a pretty good point - never mind not bein' allowed to stay in the same country; they might not allow us to even stay on the same _continent_."

"Well, considering that we'd never survive on Antarctica, that just leaves South America - mostly rainforest, but not completely - Eurasia, Africa, and Australia. And the Oceanic islands." Hound tilted his head. "We could go to Africa. Lots of sunshine to harvest during the dry season, and we could stockpile it for the wet season."

"Mm...Africa's not bad, but there are humans with cameras _everywhere_ filmin' and studyin' the wildlife or the native humans. It's a big landmass, but our chances of bein' spotted are really high." Wheeljack paused as a thought crossed his mind. "What about Pripyat?"

Hound lifted his gaze from Wheeljack's foot. "Pripyat? Where's..." The scout's optics brightened slightly when the name clicked. "Chernobyl?"

"Yeah. It's completely uninhabited - don't stop rubbin' - it won't _be_ fully inhabitable for over twenty thousand years from now, and we could easily harvest the radiation from the power plant's area, 'specially 'round Reactor Four. A few areas are open for human tourism now, but all we'd need to do is head into the more irradiated spots when there's a tour comin' or just stick with the areas outside the exclusion zone."

"The radiation wouldn't harm _us_ over time?" Hound asked.

"Nah - not with our military-grade armor. As long as we don't hang 'round the reactors constantly and we wash off regularly, we should be fine, and we could alternate who gets to go harvest energon and who gets to watch after the podlin' since he won't have our armor to resist the strongest radiation."

Hound nodded as he continued to massage his mate's ankle. "Sounds good to me. So, Pripyat?"

"Pripyat - _if_ Pennsylvania won't work and we hafta leave the country." Wheeljack hesitated. "And if we can get a ride to Ukraine. We could get to Pennsylvania by ourselves - across the ocean, not so much."

"Think they'd _let_ us have a ride?" Hound frowned softly. "Once they know what we are, I'd be very surprised if any of them let us anywhere near them, even Skyfire."

"They might if the Aerialbots come along as guards while Skyfire flies us. Still, I'm hopin' Pennsylvania will be good enough just for convenience's sake." Wheeljack fell silent for another brief klik before he spoke once more, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm gonna miss this place."

Hound gave his mate's foot a gentle squeeze. "I know. Me too. I'm going to miss 'Breaker and Mirage."

"Ratchet...the Dinobots." Wheeljack raised a hand to rub his face wearily. "Primus, I'm gonna miss the Dinobots."

"I know..." The Dinobots had been a joint project between Ratchet and Wheeljack, fueled partly by curiosity and partly by necessity - the Autobots needed more heavy hitting warriors, and Wheeljack needed...relief. Their creation and sentience baffled every Autobot aboard the _Ark_ \- no one could fathom how dinosaur-themed drones had actually _developed_ into full-fledged, _Sparked_ mechs. As far as they knew, the Dinobots had all been a miracle of Primus granted to them in a time when they desperately needed strong warriors. No one but Hound knew Wheeljack had funneled some of his excess spark energy into their creation at a time when he desperately needed _somewhere_ for it to go or risk sickness at best, collapse and detection of his true nature at worst.

The engineer had intended to only use it to perhaps give their systems a boost, to empower their bodies to work more efficiently on a temporary basis. Even he never imagined the energy he contributed would route through their systems and _ignite_ , and ever since he saw that first spark of sentience in Grimlock's visor, Wheeljack had been nigh inseparable from the massive Autobots. He had educated them, nurtured them, comforted them, and encouraged them every waking orn when no one else but Ratchet would. The other Autobots looked upon his apparent Dinobot "obsession" with a combination of mirth and bemusement, but Hound knew. The Dinobots were Wheeljack's creations as much as if they had been implanted and hatched as podlings, and Hound knew leaving them behind would be the hardest part of their exile. However, they dared not even think of speaking the truth of their creation for fear of the Dinobots being exiled or executed as well, not when the clumsy but well-meaning, overgrown mechlets had finally found their niche in the Autobot fold. No - Wheeljack had already decreed they would be safer if the truth was never revealed, and Hound had not argued.

"We need to confess," Wheeljack suddenly said, interrupting Hound's thoughts. "It's been nine orns. Nothin' we've tried has come up with any more clues as to who we attacked. I dunno how long it takes for a pod to develop, but we need to confess before he lays it."

Hound nodded. "Yeah. Pity Ratchet wouldn't budge on that drain detector - that was probably our best bet."

"Eh. He actually let me see the results this mornin' to double-check, but nothin' showed up on anybody. I'm guessin' it just hasn't developed enough for the drain to be noticeable yet."

Hound made a soft noise of acknowledgment, and the pair fell quiet once more for a brief klik before the scout spoke again, "Tomorrow. As soon as we're both off-duty, we'll go to Prime's office and confess."

Wheeljack looked up at him but only hesitated a nanoklik. "Tomorrow."

Hound gently squeezed his mate's foot again and smoothed his hand over the plating of his leg. "Together."

A grey hand slid forward to grasp the scout's black hand.

"Together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I tried to do my research when it came to the facts on Chernobyl Wheeljack was spouting, but a lot of my searches came up with conflicting information. If any information is incorrect, all I can say is I did my best. [The tour groups are true, though.](http://www.tourkiev.com/)


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_14:52  
+10 days, 12 hours, 40 minutes_ **

Hound had known since the morning that this was just going to be "one of those orns" where _nothing_ went well. His first indication was when the energon dispenser in the commons decided to have one last solar flare-related malfunction and sprayed him in the face rather than filling his ration cube - messy, yet satisfying. The second indication of the southward direction the orn was headed had been when his hologram projector gave him a critical read error shortly after the dispenser incident. The last time _that_ happened, it took Wheeljack three weeks to fix it, and Hound was not looking forward to being without his projector for that long again.

Then Teletraan-1 exploded, and Hound gave up being optimistic and just admitted it to himself: this orn was going to _suck_.

Hound had been outside the control room when it happened, and while the other mechs present were busy swearing and trying to put out the fire, Hound had been the first to notice a flash of black and silver streak out of the room hugging the wall. He wasted no time pursuing, and after he announced his task on the Autobot battle frequency, he dropped down into his alt mode to tear after Ravage, though he knew the spy already had too far a head start for him to close the distance. Many of Hound's fellow Autobots questioned how he could track her as "easily" as he did (never mind that it was not easy _at all_ ) but was unable to overtake her when it came down to a chase. They had no idea just how _fast_ the cassette was. The rockets attached to Ravage's hips were neither for show nor exclusively for firepower. No - their main function was to give her a burst of speed specifically when Hound - or anyone, though Hound was the most frequent - gave chase.

Ravage also had the advantage of terrain - tires were slick on the _Ark_ 's metallic floor; paws and claws were not, especially if Ravage, as Hound had always suspected, had electromagnets installed in her paws to aid her traction. However the black cassette managed to keep her footing, it only widened the distance as Hound pursued her, and by the time the green scout reached the hangar, Ravage was out of sight. Hound transformed and prepared himself to track her only to freeze when he looked to the distance to see what appeared to be the entire Earth-based Decepticon force bearing down on the _Ark_.

Oh, yes. This orn was _definitely_ going to suck.

That was a little more than a cycle ago. With Ravage lost - either having retreated inside Soundwave or, more likely, trying to eat Bumblebee's face - Hound had helped the medics to set up the triage center inside the hangar then joined the defensive front outside. Most of the battle was a blur from there. Hound had moved from one skirmish to another to assist where he could or to prevent a breach in the defenses at the hangar. He had been on his way to assist Sunstreaker and Trailbreaker with fighting Blitzwing when he found himself lifted from the ground and held in front of the large, baleful visor of Devastator.

Hound had no idea how long he had been held by the Constructicon combiner - every nanoklik was filled with terror and certainty that he would die the next. He was vaguely aware of his comrades below desperately firing upon his captor to loosen Devastator's grip, and every now and then, one of the Aerialbots swooped by to pepper the combiner with laser fire or the odd missile before they rejoined their skirmish with the seekers. Hound registered a shriek below which sounded like Megatron, but it was drowned out by blinding agony and his own scream when Devastator squeezed him. He felt his engine block crumple under the massive mech's thumb, and his plating cracked and split under the pressure.

In the next few nanokliks, Hound's mind was awhirl with fear and desperation and sorrow - he was afraid of dying, but he was even more afraid of leaving Wheeljack behind. He worried his mate would not be able to stay strong for the trials to come without him. They were going to confess today - they had planned it for the klik their off-time coincided, and if the Decepticons had not attacked, that would have been in just another cycle and a half. Hound wondered if Wheeljack would stick with the plan without him or if the engineer would just vanish to the wilderness in grief as Hound himself likely would have if the situation were reversed.

He tried desperately to find a thread of processing power not preoccupied with utter terror to send his love to his other half before he died, to reassure him to stay strong. However, before he could, the scout found himself flying through the air, his limbs free of Devastator's crushing grip only to impact with something - or someone. Scorched grass and earth was rent underneath him as he rolled and tumbled painfully over the ground, and Hound counted it as a tiny victory that he did not purge his tank from the combination of pain and dizziness even as he finally rolled to a sprawling stop.

Agony choked him, and damage reports flooded his HUD, blocking sixty-two percent of his field of vision which was locked on the blue, almost disgustingly peaceful sky. Everything had happened so fast, Hound could only stare at it and let out a weak, trembling laugh of relief. He was _alive_! He had no idea why Devastator had let go of him, but it did not matter - Hound had _survived_!

A choked noise of pain which was not his own pulled Hound's attention to his side. Oh - that was right. He hit somebody. He should probably check on whoever it was.

Hound tried to sit up only to cry out at sharp pain in his hip as a gear tried to rotate in a direction it was no longer able. A quick glance at the damage reports still compiling on his HUD told him his hip was completely out of joint, his engine block was crushed (he did not need a line of text to tell him _that_ ), and part of his crumpled engine had dislocated, if not broken, his ovipositor. _Ow._ A careful glance down and to his right showed Hound that one of his pincers had also been compromised and now stuck out slightly at an odd angle. Neither observation was good - well, _none_ of it was good, but frag. Wheeljack was going to have a field day trying to justify being the only one to repair him this time.

Carefully, Hound rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto his hands and the one knee which would bend, and once he was certain he would not just fall over again, Hound finally looked up to check on whoever he had impacted. His optics flickered slightly in surprise. "Ratchet?" What was Ratchet doing outside? He should have still been in the hangar. More concerning than his presence, however, was the way Ratchet was positioned on the ground - on his knees and one hand much like Hound but staring at his other hand. What was wrong?

Hound dragged himself over to the medic and opened his mouth to call out to him only to gasp when it seemed like Ratchet's entire torso began to leak. He first worried he had hit Ratchet in such a way that the medic's fuel tank had ruptured, but no - this was something else, something Hound did not recognize. Viscous silver and pale purple fluid flowed from between armored panels in the medic's abdomen and dripped messily onto the battle-blackened grass beneath him.

"Ratchet?" Hound tried once he had finally dragged himself close enough to the larger mech. "Ratchet, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

  
  
Artwork by **[Sinceredir](http://sinceredir.deviantart.com/)**  


Pale blue optics met Hound's, and both froze. As Hound looked into his comrade's face, he saw as realization and terror filled the medic's expression. Optics normally already pale blue brightened to an almost impossible hue, turning white at the edges. Hound's own optics brightened in horror when he glanced down at the fluid dripping from Ratchet's abdomen, to the swirl of nanites as they darkened in death.

_Red paint - thicker plating—_

Hound's gaze snapped back to Ratchet's terrified face just in time to hear the medic choke " _You—_ " before Ratchet's systems finally had to forcibly shut down from shock, and he collapsed in front of the scout.

Hound could only stare at the offline mech in front of him for a klik. Ratchet. They attacked _Ratchet_. Of all the mechs Hound and Wheeljack feared they had attacked the most, Wheeljack's best and oldest friend had been right at the top of the list.

If Optimus did not have them executed, this knowledge alone might kill the engineer.

Hound fought the overwhelming urge of his spark to keep his vocalizer to himself and not draw attention to what happened, and after a few nanokliks of struggle, he called to any Autobot nearby. The Decepticons were retreating - that meant help was not far away. As he watched Hoist and First Aid approach from the _Ark_ , Hound reached out to his mate, his fuel tank heavy with dread.

< _'Jack,_ > Hound said weakly as Optimus and Ironhide helped Hoist move Ratchet onto a mobile Autobot repair bay for ease of transport to the infirmary. He could not take his optics off of the medic's still form even as First Aid approached him and Trailbreaker's black hands reached down to help him to his feet. < _I found him._ >

—

**_14:56  
+10 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes_ **

Between the blockade of heavy crates, the expansive walls, and the close quarters of the impromptu triage center, the hangar acted as an echo chamber. It was difficult to hear anything happening outside other than explosions, laser fire, and roaring Dinobots and combiner teams, all of which ran together into a seemingly endless cacophony. The only break was when new triage requests came in over the emergency medical comm frequency, but those were few and far between as there had not yet been an injury severe enough that the mech in peril needed to be carried into the hangar. Those who needed immediate attention had, thus far, been able to get themselves to the awaiting medics on their own power and, for the most part, only used the medical frequency to let the mechs in the hangar know they were coming.

The medics knew they were fortunate so far, but they also knew they were simply watching their chronometers slowly tick down to the inevitable. Sooner or later, a call was going to come in for a mech too badly injured to move, and one or all of them were going to have to leave the relative safety of the hangar to help their comrade. With the increasing number of injured Autobots falling back for field repairs, Wheeljack was not certain they could hold out much longer. Of course, the Autobots always had contingency plans on standby in case the _Ark_ was ever successfully sieged. The hangar could be completely locked down which would buy them time to get Teletraan-1 transferred to a portable console and his redundant backups erased of any sensitive information. Then, the plan was to evacuate into tunnels secretly carved into the volcano and to eventually scatter into the area surrounding Mount St. Hilary to rendezvous at a bunker several states away. Depending on the severity of the situation, the _Ark_ was also capable of self-destructing in order to take as many Decepticons as possible down with it. Wheeljack just hoped it would not come to that.

< _Prime is down! Prime is down!_ > someone - Brawn, Wheeljack thought - yelled on the medical frequency. The incoming order was almost immediately canceled by Optimus - _that_ was nothing new.

< _Smelt that!_ > Ratchet snapped in response to Prime's downplay of his injuries - that was not surprising either, nor was the sound of Ratchet's heavy footfalls when he rushed out of the blockade and out of the hangar, yelling, "Mirage - with me!"

Wheeljack flickered his optics when he abruptly found his hands empty and the badly burned plating of Mirage's thigh no longer in his field of view. He blinked again and made an expansive gesture of exasperation with his hands. "I wasn't done patchin' that!" he huffed, then turned to check First Aid's progress with Sideswipe's arm. The wound was bad - not _fatal_ by any means but certainly _painful_. Even if Wheeljack had not known that from first glance, the pale, nearly white color of Sideswipe's optics and the labored puffs of overheated air from his vents were as good an indicator as any. Thankfully, it was a clean cut - by whose weapon, Wheeljack could not guess since most of the Decepticons chose guns over blades, and it was too long and thin a cut to be from Ravage's claws. In the grand scheme of the battle, however, whose handiwork it was did not matter - it was _painful_. The red frontliner was well-known for his pain threshold; given his tendency to charge headfirst into battle, sometimes ahead of even Optimus, his tolerance for pain _had_ to be high. However, the spoiled energon at Sideswipe's feet and the tremor in his free hand spoke volumes: even he had his limits.

Wheeljack glanced briefly to Hoist and his work with Skydive's wing, but one look told him Hoist had the Aerialbot's injury under control. His own skills were best suited to helping First Aid treat Sideswipe. "What painkillers has he had so far?" the engineer asked. If Sideswipe was still in this much pain, the answer was quite obviously "not enough".

"Fifty millihics of acraphyn," First Aid answered without looking up.

"I'm givin' him one hundred of thermaline - mark it down."

"S'not...gonna knock me out, is it?" Sideswipe managed to ask, his vocalizer tight and words choked. "I can still fight...!"

Wheeljack pat his uninjured forearm and said, "Not gonna knock you out, no, but we'll see whether or not you're goin' back out there when 'Aid's done." He turned away to draw the appropriate medicine into a syringe. "That's a nasty cut, and it ain't just wires it went through. You're gonna need extensive repairs on it once all this smelt's over. Who got you?"

"B-Blitzwing," Sideswipe answered. "Forgot he had that stupid sword."

The engineer brightened one optic slightly. He had actually forgotten about that too - the triplechanger rarely used his electro-sword, which was a good thing. Electro-weapons were Unicron spawn and caused more difficult and much more painful injuries than blaster fire. "That explains the melted edges," Wheeljack muttered. He shook his head and removed the needle from the syringe so he could lock it into the medical port in Sideswipe's shoulder, injecting the thermaline directly into his systems. Thankfully, the medical port was on the same arm as the injury, so the painkiller would get to the affected area quickly. "This should take the edge off in a few kliks," Wheeljack assured him. "Then we'll discuss if you're goin' back out or gettin' put on firefightin' duty—" He blinked again when he actually heard a voice over the background noise of battle: the unmistakable shriek of Megatron calling for a retreat. "Welp - no more fightin' for you, after all." Wheeljack laughed at Sideswipe's melodramatic sigh and gave his shoulder a squeeze as he watched Hoist rush out of the hangar with a mobile repair bay to start the post-battle triage assessment. "You'll get revenge next time." The engineer moved his gaze to the youngest medic and said, "It's too good to hope they'll only need one. I'll take over with 'Sides from here."

First Aid nodded and passed his tools to him. "I've finished with the wires," he said. "It just needs a patch to keep dirt from getting to the circuitry until we can complete the more extensive repairs inside." With that, Wheeljack shooed him away with another mobile repair bay and moved his gaze downward to carefully tack a metalmesh patch over the ugly gash.

< _'Jack,_ > Hound's private communications frequency interrupted him, his voice thin with pain and shock. Wheeljack froze, every thread of processing power narrowing to a pinprick of focus on his mate's voice. What had happened? Was Hound injured? Of course he was - he would not have sounded like that if he was fine. How badly hurt was he? Wheeljack had not been paying attention to the overall battle frequency, just the medical channel. There had not been a triage request for him - was it a stray shot as the Decepticons retreated? Was Hound bleeding out in a trench, unnoticed by the others? The torsion cables in Wheeljack's legs tensed, about to launch himself off the floor to bolt outside—

< _I found him._ >

Tension bled out in a nanoklik and sent Wheeljack heavily back to one knee from where he had been almost to his feet. He knew immediately what his other half meant - he knew who they had attacked. _How_ he knew, Wheeljack could not guess, but he did - Hound _knew_. That was the important part - that was what Wheeljack needed and dreaded to know.

< _Who?_ > he demanded of Hound, ignoring Sideswipe's requests to know if something was wrong. Of _course_ something was _wrong_. Nothing had been _right_ in _ten orns_.  < _Who was it—_ >

Wheeljack cut himself off when he lifted his gaze and saw Hoist, Optimus, and Ironhide rush by with the mobile repair bay between them. Prostrate aboard it, coated in thick, oddly colored fluids which dripped off of the platform, was—

No.

_No._

_Please, Primus, no,_ was all Wheeljack could think, his optics locked onto the unconscious form of his best friend, his mentor in his first terms at the Iacon Academy, the mech he turned to when he needed advice on anything, professional or personal, if he could not turn to Hound first, the mech who had encouraged him to pursue his passion in science and fostered his skills in medicine despite Wheeljack not being enrolled in the Academy of Medicine, the mech who, had Wheeljack not already been mated and not been a monster from a bygone era of Cybertron, Wheeljack would have gladly chosen to call his other half.

Not Ratchet. _Anybody_ but Ratchet—

The second repair bay floated by, pushed by First Aid. Aboard it, Hound rolled his head to the side, searching for his mate, and when their optics met, Wheeljack's fuel tank roiled. The first thing he noticed was the naked devastation in Hound's optics, but immediately after that, he saw the extensive damage to his mate's frame, and Wheeljack's spark surged in its chamber. Without thinking, he rushed to his feet to take the mobile repair bay from First Aid and insisted the profoundly confused junior medic finish treating the equally confused Sideswipe followed by a firm order to assist Swoop with gathering the remaining injured outside. The engineer rushed into the _Ark_ with Hound before First Aid could protest and before he had to pull rank. His mate was grievously hurt - that took priority above all else, and Wheeljack would not let anyone get in his way.

A black hand reached up and back toward him and gave Wheeljack's forearm a weak squeeze. The white mech glanced down to him and softened the glow of his optics into a sickly, mouthless smile. < _Let me get you patched up,_ > Wheeljack said.

< _He knows,_ > Hound interrupted him. < _The pod must have ruptured. He looked right at me - I could see it in his optics. He knows._ >

Wheeljack remained silent for a few long kliks. His spark clenched at the knowledge that the pod was gone - that explained the odd fluids covering Ratchet's torso. However, even knowing as little as he did about their own kind's development, Wheeljack knew ten orns had not been enough time for anything. The pod had still been nothing but energon, nanites, and silicone, making the loss little more than a brief nanoklik of remorse. He felt more remorse and sorrow for the mech they had attacked. What they did was horrible, no matter that they had not been in control and did not remember anything of that night. It was a horrible violation of body, spark, and trust no matter the victim. The fact that it was Ratchet, however, made it all the more sorrowful in Wheeljack's mind. He knew it should not have - what they did should not have been any worse with one victim than it was another. But it was, at least to him. Hound was everything to Wheeljack, but if he had not had the scout, his "everything" would have been Ratchet.

He moved them into the medbay and nodded his acknowledgment of Optimus and Ironhide's presence where they were leaving the waiting area to help bring in more injured. A wary glance around the inside of the infirmary told Wheeljack that Hoist had already moved Ratchet into a private ward. Time, something he and Hound had just that morning thought they had plenty of, was running out.

< _Let me get you patched up,_ > Wheeljack repeated softly as he guided the mobile repair bay to the other private ward. He wanted to get as many repairs done on his mate as he could first - it was doubtful he would be allowed once they confessed and their true nature was out in the open. < _As soon as I've got you stabilized..._ > He trailed off, his voice tightening along with the hand on his forearm. That would only be about another cycle. In another cycle, they would confess.

Wheeljack closed the door behind him and moved one hand from the platform to grip his mate's in a tight, frightened squeeze.

In another cycle, they would face their fate.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_17:52  
+10 days, 15 hours, 40 minutes_ **

One set of blue optics cast a confused and concerned glance to the other. Those optics moved to a blue visor, and the visor moved between the fourth occupant of the room and the door. It was the sixth time the assembled officers had exchanged silent glances with one another in the past few breems, and still no answers were forthcoming, not until the mech who had assembled them arrived.

Jazz sat perched on the corner of Prowl's desk, arms resting on upraised knees. From there, he watched Ironhide pace from one end of the office to the other, the weapons specialist's own gaze rarely lifting from the floor. When it did, he only looked to the door, willing it to open. Optimus leaned against the wall behind Prowl who was seated at his desk, hands folded on the metal in front of him. With only one missing, they were the highest ranked officers aboard the _Ark_ , and it was rare they were brought together in such quarters. Normally, after such a grueling Decepticon assault, they would have been assembled in the war room for debriefing along with half a dozen other mechs - Red Alert, Blaster, Wheeljack, and the only elite officer missing, Ratchet. Instead, they were assembled in private in the only office Red Alert could not view if Prowl did not wish him to. Such secrecy was exceedingly rare, reserved for only what they all agreed upon to be the worst of circumstances.

This time, however, none of them knew why.

When the request for such a private meeting came, Optimus and Ironhide had been helping injured Autobots inside and to the medbay, Jazz had been locking down and sealing off the hangar to sequester the Autobots until the total damage assessment was finished, and Prowl was beginning to assemble the debrief. Then, they were requested - no, _told_ \- to assemble in Prowl's office as soon as possible and to prepare for an emergency meeting of the highest possible security. None knew or understood why, but such requests were never taken lightly, especially not after their improbable survival of such a near-devastating Decepticon attack.

They did not question - they waited. They had waited for a little over half a cycle; given who had made the request, they knew they needed to be patient. It could be another cycle before the infirmary was clear enough to allow their assembler time and opportunity to leave his post. Patience, however, was beginning to run thin, overtaken by worry and nervousness.

All Optimus could guess was that the meeting was somehow about Ratchet. He had not seen what happened to the medic. When Devastator threw Hound, Prime's next glimpse of his head medic had been after Ratchet collapsed leaking an unknown substance, after a frantic and terribly injured Hound started calling for help for the medic, insistent that Ratchet was seen to before himself. As the officers waited, Ironhide had expressed concern that Ratchet was the victim of some new Decepticon weapon, something they failed to notice in the chaos of the battle and their frantic attempts to keep the _Ark_ secured and Hound from being crushed. Jazz had his doubts but had not been able to provide any other speculation. Prowl insisted he did not have enough information regarding Ratchet's condition to draw any reasonable hypotheses, and Optimus simply worried for his medic and friend. To the Prime, the cause and true nature of Ratchet's ailment was far less important than the possibility that he may never again emerge from the medbay. Once Ratchet was determined to be alive and recovering, _then_ he would worry about what had happened to him, if it would happen again, and any long-term ramifications.

Ironhide spun around mid-step, Jazz jumped down from the desk, Optimus pushed away from the wall, and Prowl stood when the door chimed in response to a medic override code and opened to allow Hoist inside. Optics and visor were all trained on the green and yellow medic as he entered, and no one dared to speak. Jazz was the first to notice the small container Hoist carried and frowned in confusion, but he remained silent with his fellow officers to allow Hoist the first word.

After he ensured the door was locked once more, the medic closed the distance between it and Prowl's desk, set down the container in his hand, and spoke, "First, Ratchet will recover." Tension and held ventilations cleared throughout the room, but Optimus did not allow himself to relax. He had heard the unspoken "but".

"What happened to 'im?" Ironhide demanded then stepped closer to frown into the container. "And what's that?"

"This," Hoist answered, "is what I found inside him when I was assessing his condition." Optimus stepped closer as Jazz and Prowl leaned forward as well to peer inside the container which held something far less imposing than what Prime had expected. He had anticipated a control device of some sort, even an acid bomb, not...a thin sheet of light blue silicone. It was wet with what smelled like spoiled energon, except energon was not purple. The silicone looked innocuous enough, like it may have once formed a sphere which could have fit comfortably in Optimus' palm, but it had been split open. It was not completely smooth - there were many long threads of silicone spread around it, connected to or broken off from it. If it was supposed to be a sphere, whatever it was, what had it contained? What function did the threads covering it serve?

"What is it?" Jazz asked. "Some 'Con weapon?"

"No," the green medic assured him. "I don't believe this had anything to do with the Decepticons." He lifted his visored gaze from the container to look between the officers present. "Have any of you ever heard of or know anything about cuculids?"

The reaction was immediate. Optics brightened, vents hitched, and Jazz vaulted himself away from the container. Only Optimus appeared confused, and it showed in the way he stared in bafflement at his subordinates' horrified reactions.

"That _cannot_ be what this is," Ironhide said with conviction, as if simply saying it could make it true. "They're extinct."

"I'm afraid it is, and I'm afraid they're not," Hoist said simply.

"Wait - what are we talking about?" Prime asked.

"I'm not surprised you don't know what this is. You're probably too young to have learned about them, even from stories," Hoist said with a shake of his head then shifted his position so he could face his Prime fully. "Cuculids are an ancient subtype of Cybertronian, one, as Ironhide said, which has been believed to be extinct for eons."

"A 'subtype' such as spark splitters like Blaster and Soundwave," Prowl clarified.

Hoist nodded. "Yes, but spark splitters are a much younger subtype compared to cuculids. Spark splitters first developed around the beginning of the Golden Age while cuculid mechs date much further back. Common theory is that they even date all the way back to Quintesson rule and the dawn of our kind. However, it was also widely believed that they were extinct, driven from Cybertron or even hunted down and extinguished eons ago at the dawn of the Golden Age. In fact, their supposed eradication was one reason why the Golden Age was called that - it marked the true end of Quintesson reign, and cuculid kind followed."

"I've only ever heard of 'em through horror stories," Jazz spoke. "They were somethin' older mechs told younger mechs to make 'em afraid of walkin' down dark alleys. Forget dealers, muggers, an' murderers - it was _these_ things you were told to be afraid of." He shuddered. "I never really thought they were _real_ , though."

"Why?" Optimus asked. "What was so horrible about these mechs that our predecessors chose to destroy them and relegate them to myth and legend?"

"This," Ironhide answered with a gesture to the empty silicone sheath. "This is why scientists back in my orn thought they were Quintesson creations - weapons, even."

Hoist nodded again. "The way they're designed in both body and spark, they're completely incapable of propagating their subtype without outside assistance - without a host. They capture a mech and hold him captive until they have implanted this pod inside him. Next, they merge their sparks with his to coerce his silence and then vanish without a trace, leaving the host mech to develop and raise their offspring. The host mech is rendered incapable of communicating his condition or the true nature of the mechlet once its pod hatches, and he is forced by the spark merge to care for and raise the mechlet against his will. The mental, emotional, and spark-based trauma on part of the host mech is...significant. Usually. There are extremely rare exceptions, but for the most part, it's a horrendous thing to endure."

"They're parasites in every sense of the word," Ironhide growled. "Never thought I'd hear of 'em again." He finally tore his glare from the container to address his fellow officers directly. "How to track an' hunt these things was one of the beginnin' courses in the original War Academy, back when it was in Altihex instead of Iacon. Never saw one, myself, but I saw plenty of case studies on past victims. After a few hundred vorns of no more documented sightin's, they canceled the program. Must've purged the database, too, when the Academy moved cities. Probably didn't think they had to worry 'bout 'em again." He nodded to the container again. "Obviously wishful thinkin'."

"I recall something like this when I was still a junior enforcer in Praxus," Prowl spoke. He crossed his arms over his hood and stared into the container, though he did not see its contents. "I remember a homicide case where we could not figure out exactly what had killed the mech, but his body was covered with fluids similar to those Ratchet was leaking when Hoist brought him in earlier." Prowl reached forward, paused until Hoist nodded his assent, then reached into the container to feel the silicone sheath - the pod. He nodded as he rubbed it between his fingers. "Yes - there were sheets of this material inside him, or something similar, all over his circuitry and internals. I never learned what it was or saw what became of the case - it was moved to a higher jurisdiction than mine as soon as the body was taken for autopsy, and the department was more or less told to forget it happened. It was 'no longer our concern'." He shook his head and let go of the pod. "I never imagined it could have been one of _them_."

"It's highly unusual for a cuculid pair to kill a potential host mech," Hoist said. "Suicide after implantation or hatching is far more likely, especially if the host couldn't or didn't find emotional support for recovery. It's possible you simply saw an implantation gone badly. Maybe he fought back harder than they anticipated, or perhaps his body was incompatible. There's really no way to tell." The green medic sighed. "It's very unfortunate that our society tried to erase all proof of their existence as soon as it seemed they were extinct because, as you can see, they're not. I only know as much as I do because I was trained and lived for a long time in Crystal City, and Crystal City had...a real problem with them."

Jazz's gaze shot to him, visor overbright. "What?"

The other mech shrugged. "Crystal City was complex in design, and with every generation of cuculid, they became better and better at staying hidden. There were a lot of places for them to hide and a dense population to get lost in."

"And prey on," Ironhide grumbled.

"Every time evidence of their existence was found, it was locked away," Hoist continued. "It was illegal in Crystal City to bring attention to the cuculid subtype, even in the past tense. The idea was that if it became public information, it would create panic and paranoia as well as irreparably damage the economy of the city if the public learned of what lurked in the shadows. It was 'better' to just let the average citizen believe they never existed and were simply an old horror story from a bygone age." Hoist reached down to gingerly pick up the sheath and held it to the light, ignoring the way Jazz leaned away from it. "I had only ever seen one of these before today, inside a host mech who had finally been unable to dodge around a routine physical exam. My supervisor destroyed the pod, the authorities of Crystal City were notified, and that was that. Just as when Prowl was told to forget about the victim of his case, I was forbidden from discussing the patient and was told to forget it happened, that the enforcers would 'find the monsters' and 'deal with them'." He shook his head with another sigh and set the empty pod down once more. "I later found out the host killed himself. He just could not live with the trauma-induced paranoia and was unable to get psychological help because of the 'hush hush' attitude in the city."

"I can't help but notice you keep referring to cuculid mechs in the plural," Optimus said gravely. "Even when talking about a singular host."

"They travel in pairs," Ironhide confirmed. "There's never just one - _always_ two."

"So, we now have a pair of parasitic mechs runnin' 'round here, an' poor Ratchet was their latest victim," Jazz said needlessly. "Any chance at all that they're 'Cons?"

"Highly doubtful," Hoist answered and gestured once more to the pod even though none of those present were entirely willing to look at it anymore. Ironhide had backed away from the desk to put as much distance between it and himself as he could without being completely across the room, and after Hoist had taken it out of the container earlier, Jazz had all but hidden behind Prowl's desk to get away from it as well. "Given the size of the pod and its contents - only energon and a nanite solution - my best guess is that Ratchet had only been implanted for two weeks, give or take a few orns, and as everyone knows, we've been under lockdown since the solar flare." Hoist shook his head again. "I wish I had been able to learn more about them, but truthfully, there is almost _no_ information about cuculids to be found. The medical database contains literally one entry comprised of a few bullet points ending in 'they're extinct'. No - all evidence indicates that the cuculids who attacked Ratchet are Autobots."

"We need to flush 'em out," Ironhide snapped and looked between his fellow officers. "Get rid of 'em before they do this to somebody else."

"Wait - wait," Prowl said, frowning. "If all of this is true, it does not make sense. If these cuculids are Autobots, logic would indicate that this should have happened before. We have all been in close quarters and working and fighting alongside one another for vorns, and nothing like this has happened before."

"There are the transfers from Cybertron to consider," Jazz pointed out. "They ain't been with us that long - a decade or so. If it's anybody, it's probably one of them."

"It doesn't matter _who_ they are or _how_ long they've been among us!" Ironhide growled. "We can worry 'bout the hows and whys after we've found 'em and made sure they can't hurt another one of us!"

Optimus shook his head. "I agree with Prowl," he said. "This doesn't make sense." He looked to the red mech at his side. "Ironhide, you're letting whatever you were taught about these mechs in the War Academy or whatever stories you heard in the past color your judgment - calm down and think rationally—"

"What more proof do 'ya need, Prime?" Ironhide demanded. He pointed into the container then to the wall in the general direction of the infirmary. "Hoist just pulled this _thing_ outta _Ratchet_. These _parasites_ are among us - there's a reason why mechs were trained to hunt 'em down and kill 'em! Primus knows what _else_ they do!"

"Calm. Down," Prime said firmly. "I didn't say I don't believe what happened - I'm not blind. I can see the evidence in front of me. But as Prowl said, there are factors which don't make sense. Yes, we need to find out who this pair is, _but_ , I'm not going to be or allow _you_ to be hasty in destroying them. There are always two sides to the same story."

"How can 'ya say that knowin' what they've done to Ratchet—"

"Hey," Jazz tried to interrupt. "Can we argue 'bout this later? Find 'em first, _then_ decide what to do 'bout 'em an' what we can do to help Ratchet recover from this?"

"Jazz and Optimus have a point," Hoist spoke again. "The truth is we don't know anything about them because of the way information was purged or kept under encryption. What we _think_ we know cannot be trusted because most of it comes from embellished stories _designed_ to scare mechs."

"Indeed," Prowl said. "We're letting fear of the unknown cloud our judgment." He held up a hand to interrupt Ironhide when the red mech opened his mouth again. "You said yourself you have never seen one before. You have never seen _for yourself_ what they can do. All you _know_ about them is what you were told and taught. Correct?" Ironhide glowered but reluctantly nodded. "Then, currently, your judgment is compromised by prejudices and fear _taught_ to you with no basis in experience."

Optimus nodded. "It's possible that these mechs are every bit as dangerous as you all were led to believe, but it's equally possible that they are not and that this was an isolated incident. Just because the recruits from Cybertron have not been among us as long as the rest does not mean it automatically makes sense for them to be the culprits. If Ratchet was not an isolated incident and this had happened while the pair was on Cybertron or in any other Autobot battalion, _someone_ would have noticed something long before now. We cannot _know_ anything for certain until we have found them and have all of the factors necessary to draw a well-educated conclusion."

Prowl nodded as well. "We find them first. Flush them out if necessary. Then, we decide what to do with them _after_ a proper interrogation. We—"

His head jerked up and the other mechs present spun to face the door when they heard the familiar tones of the keypad outside accepting a medical override code. When the code was validated, the door slid open to admit Wheeljack. As the engineer looked at the assembled mechs and his optics settled on the container on Prowl's desk, those present who could frowned.

"Wheeljack," Optimus spoke slowly, his confusion evident in his voice, "you are not cleared for this meeting—" His optics brightened when a second mech stepped in to stand beside Wheeljack, the door closing behind them.

"And _Hound_ most _certainly_ is not," Prowl said firmly. "Nor, I believe, is he even cleared to leave the medbay. Explain yourselves—"

"It was us," Wheeljack blurted out before nervousness and fear could keep him silenced, and his spark stuttered in its chamber as optics and visors brightened around the room and several mechs shifted away.

Hound reached over to thread his fingers through his frightened mate's and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before he confirmed, "It was us."

—

**_19:01  
+10 days, 17 hours, 49 minutes_ **

The shade of orange which decorated the walls, floor, and even the ceiling of the _Ark_ was borderline obscene. Nearly every Autobot complained about it and had complained about it since the ship's launch from Cybertron. Few tried to do anything to remedy it - only certain types of paint would adhere, and even when an Autobot found a type of paint which dried properly, the horrid orange was often still visible through it, as if it were the vile, corrosive blood of Unicron himself. Some Autobots were so desperate to escape it that they simply bolted colored sheet metal over the walls, floor, and ceiling of their personal quarters, and some Autobots went to more extreme lengths such as when Grimlock hauled in six buckets of mud and just splattered every flat surface until he could stand to look at the walls again.

The medbay went the "sheet metal" route, leaving it and the private suites a much more appealing shade of light blue-green. An extra layer of sheet metal on the floor meant there was a little more of an echo when mechs walked on it, but it was still preferable to the offensive orange of before. Not only was it more appealing to look at for the average mech, it was also much more appealing for a patient to awaken under. "Grapple Orange" was jarring and did not promote a calm state of mind to injured mechs who needed as much comfort as they could get. Blue-green - or almost _any_ other color, really - was much more soothing. Somehow, it helped patients to feel safe and secure, to instill in them the idea that when they awakened under that ceiling, help was on the way.

At least, that was what the average patient said when asked for his feedback regarding the color scheme when the medics thought about changing it. Ratchet had never quite understood before how a simple color could say "I'm safe here" - until the last ten orns.

Ratchet stared blankly up at the soothing ceiling, and he finally understood. It was not so much the color itself which created the feeling of safety and security - it was that the color was associated with the medbay. If one awakened to the medbay's soft color, he knew his pain or ailment was near an end. He knew he was _alive_ and that someone was working to keep him that way. He had not noticed it during the last ten orns, possibly because he had been too busy jumping at shadows or too focused inward to the parasite inside him—

Ratchet's optics brightened.

He dared not hope, but he could not stop himself from moving his attention fully inward again, focusing on the area between his spark chamber and his fuel tank while he carefully pushed himself into a sitting position on the exam berth. As he moved, he paid close attention to the way his wiring and piping moved, feeling for anything which may have been tugging them or for something pressing down on his circuitry. When he was fully upright and had felt no pressure inside himself, Ratchet clapped a hand over his mouth and let himself shake with a weak, desperate laugh.

It was gone.

It was _gone_.

By Primus, the parasite was **gone**.

Ratchet leaned forward to press his chevron against his upraised knees and let himself shake and laugh in profound relief. It had only been inside him for ten orns, but it felt like it had been much, much longer. He felt as if he had stepped out of the darkness and into the warm, welcoming light once more, no longer isolated, no longer ruled by fear. His memory of the night he was attacked was still corrupted and probably always would be, but as he assessed his condition, he found that his spark no longer felt pressured. The thought of speaking about his burden did not make his vocalizer shut down or cause his fuel tank to roil or force his equilibrium sensors to malfunction. The parasitic egg was gone, and now, he was free to begin a true hunt for his attackers.

His optics brightened when he remembered the last few nanokliks of the battle - he remembered those optics. He remembered the naked recognition in Hound's face. Ratchet thought it was somewhat ironic that he had suspected Hound initially only to be proven correct, but in the long run, previous speculation did not matter. He _knew_ one of them now, and Ratchet knew he could use Hound to find the other. Who was it? Trailbreaker? Mirage? Someone else entirely? Someone Hound did not often get along with in order to throw off suspicion? The medic knew he needed to be careful - Hound had probably already warned his partner, so they would be on the defensive, ready to deny any of Ratchet's accusations or to even try to silence him before he could begin.

Ratchet's gaze shot to the door. That thought had not occurred to him before. It was the night shift by now - if the worst injuries had already been patched by Hoist, Swoop, First Aid, and Wheeljack, then the infirmary was understaffed, possibly empty save for the terribly injured and probably unconscious, and Ratchet was in one of the private rooms with no cameras or microphones which could alert the security team if someone tried to attack him. Frantic all over again, Ratchet looked around quickly to find something - anything - he could use to defend himself should Hound and his other monstrous half enter. He had grabbed a laser scalpel from the tool tray near the berth and was trying to work his tired, over-exerted body into a stiff, defensive crouch when the door opened.

Two mechs entered, and it was only because Hound was not one of them that Ratchet let himself relax just slightly. Hoist and Optimus raised their hands in the universal gesture to show they meant no harm, but while Ratchet allowed himself to sit back down almost comfortably, he still kept his grip tight on the laser scalpel. It pained him to suspect either of them, especially his Prime, but one of them could have still been the other cuculid. It was that uncertainty which kept him from speaking first and instead focused on watching them, waiting to see what they were going to do or say.

"Ratchet," Hoist spoke once the door had locked behind them once more. "It's alright. I brought you in after you collapsed outside. I found the cuculid pod inside you and removed it."

Feeling that it was gone had been a profound relief, but hearing it _spoken_ seemed to drain all of the tension out of Ratchet's frame. He lost his grip on the scalpel and simply raised his hand to rub his face, shivering anew. Ratchet flinched slightly when he felt hands on his shoulders but did not pull away as he struggled to rein in his emotions. It was hard to think about _anything_ beyond the simple easing of his spark with the knowledge that it was over.

"Hound," Ratchet finally managed to rasp and lifted his head from his hand to look between the two mechs standing at his sides. Without his spark choking him silent, the words tumbled forth in a desperate stream. "I don't remember anything about what happened - most of that night's a blank, but I remembered one detail, and I know it's Hound. He's one of them—"

"We know," Optimus interrupted, his deep voice soft as he gave Ratchet's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "He and Wheeljack confessed. They're currently in the brig pending interrogation, and they're under guard by Jazz and Ironhide." He may have said more, but Ratchet did not hear it. The glow of his optics paled as his focus narrowed to just one word - one _name_.

"...Wheeljack?" Ratchet managed to choke. "The...the other one...is _Wheeljack_?"

"I'm afraid so," Hoist said solemnly. "I am so sorry, Ratchet."

Ratchet flashed back to the sense of betrayal he had felt when he first realized his attackers had been fellow Autobots, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of utter treachery which strangled his spark now. Wheeljack was the one mech he had never suspected, the one mech Ratchet had emphatically _refused_ to even consider because it simply could not have been true. Wheeljack was his best friend, the mech whom Ratchet trusted with his life, beyond even Optimus. The engineer was _everything_ to him. They had gone to school together, joined the Autobots together, cleaned up after one another, watched one another's backs, worked on joint projects, created and nurtured the Dinobots when no one else would support them—

And Wheeljack had attacked him. His most trusted friend had violated him - body, mind, and spark. Ratchet was so devastated, he could not even find the will to purge his roiling fuel tank. 

"Ratchet," came Optimus' soothing voice again to draw the medic back to painful, horrible reality. "We're going to interrogate them first thing in the morning. You can stay here and recover—"

"No." Ratchet lifted his gaze from the floor to look at his Prime, his own voice thick with barely contained emotion but firm. "No, I want to be there. I _deserve_ to be part of this."

Prime and Hoist exchanged an uncertain glance, but neither could offer an adequate denial. Ratchet _did_ deserve to face his attackers, especially given the identity of one. "Very well," Prime responded as he looked back to his head medic. "You won't be in there alone, and they will be restrained - you'll have nothing to fear of them."

Ratchet was not looking at either of them, his burning gaze locked on the floor. He shook his head and simply growled, "They should fear _me_."


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_07:00  
+11 days, 4 hours, 48 minutes_ **

The war room was not the friendliest nor most comfortable of areas in the entire _Ark_ , nor was it meant to be. The layout had been set to promote thinking and open discussion, not relaxation, and as such, the chairs were just shy of comfortable on a good orn and downright torturous to sit in on a bad orn. The table was rounded with the chairs normally evenly spaced in order to promote a feeling of oneness among the officers. No mech had to look too far or around another in order to speak to those assembled, and if the topic of discussion required the mech to be the focus, the others merely had to turn their heads slightly to give him their attention. It was not comfortable, and no one liked spending cycles on end there, but the war room fostered the sense of "we are together in this", a team spirit where everyone's opinion was valid.

At least, that was how it was normally arranged. Now, all but two chairs were clustered on one rounded end of the table as closely together as they could be without enabling the mechs sitting in them to touch constantly, and the two holdouts were positioned on the direct opposite side of the table as far away as possible while still giving the impression that their occupants were still part of the discussion. Either on purpose or by convenient coincidence, the two chairs singled out were by far the most uncomfortable of the already borderline unpleasant seats available - one was missing an arm and had a tear in the cushioning, and the other was uneven and had a tendency to wobble at the most inopportune time. The overall impression was clear: their occupants' presence was not welcome.

That was not even factoring in the restraints. Stasis cuffs and restraining cords had been employed to further drive home the already crystal clear sense of unwelcome and distrust and, though few would admit it aloud, fear. Hound and Wheeljack's wrists were cuffed behind their backs with a loop of cord around their arms which kept them pressed back into the uncomfortable chairs. At least their legs were free - Optimus had actually put a stop to cuffing their ankles to the legs of their chairs, citing it unnecessary as the stasis cuffs alone would keep their motor systems sluggish enough to be restrained should they need to be. They had not commented lest he change his mind, but they were intensely thankful. With their legs free, they could still touch each another - it was just by brushing the sides of their feet against one another's, but it was better than nothing at all. They needed all the comfort they could create for themselves since there was none to find anywhere else, least of all from across the table directly opposite from Wheeljack.

The engineer had a feeling that was on purpose, that Ratchet intentionally took the seat parallel to him so Wheeljack had no hope of escaping the spark-wrenching, baleful glare aimed toward him. Ratchet had barely glanced at Hound since the pair was lead into the war room - all of his attention had been on his former best friend, the glare filled with unrelenting rage and utter hatred. Wheeljack had initially tried to meet his former friend's heated glare with a simple look of his own, had attempted to project his regret and sorrow into his own gaze in the hope that Ratchet would feel its sincerity, but the smaller mech finally lowered his optics. It hurt his spark too much to see friendship and caring transformed into hatred. Wheeljack forced himself to keep his gaze forward out of politeness, but he could no longer meet Ratchet's optics, instead focused on the chief medic's still cracked windshield. Hound's foot gently rubbing up and down the side of his own was the only thing which kept Wheeljack's vocalizer from tightening beyond the ability to speak.

Hound was still badly damaged from Devastator's crushing grip the orn before, his own optics glazed over with muted but slowly fading pain. Being forced to sit in separate cells throughout the night had been difficult, especially with their communicators disabled from sending or receiving on any frequency but directly from the officers themselves, but even worse had been the knowledge that Hound was still in terrible pain from his injuries and there had been nothing Wheeljack could do about it. However, despite Ratchet's anger, despite how he currently felt, he was still a medic, and while he had expressed his initial desire to deny Hound pain relief in retribution for what they did to him, the medic admitted he could not in good conscience do so. He was a medic, and he had taken an oath to aid whenever possible regardless of his own personal feelings, and he took that oath seriously. He had ignored Wheeljack when the smaller mech thanked him profusely while Hoist administered the painkiller to his mate.

In all, Hound and Wheeljack sat across from six of their former allies, five of them officers. Optimus and Ratchet sat in the middle with Optimus directly across from Hound. Next to Optimus sat Prowl and Red Alert, and at Ratchet's other side were Jazz and Perceptor, the odd mech out. Perceptor was the only mech present who was not an officer - yet. He was, in all likelihood, pending promotion due to Wheeljack being stripped of his rank of lead scientist. A sixth officer, Ironhide, was present via patched commlink, but he stood guard outside the room, as much to keep Wheeljack and Hound in as to keep nosy Autobots out. The officers had been careful to avoid being seen as they transported the two restrained mechs from the brig to the war room, but it was still likely _someone_ saw them and would eventually turn up to ask questions. It had been difficult enough keeping concerned Autobots away from Ratchet during the night once they learned he had awakened from his mysterious collapse in the battle.

All mechs present remained silent as Hoist finished administering a strong enough painkiller to Hound for him to be able to think clearly for the interrogation. Only one medic was truly needed at the meeting, but Hoist was on-call "just in case". Ratchet refused to acknowledge what "just in case" meant, but everyone could use their imaginations. Mechs had suffered panic attacks and flashbacks over less invasive traumas in the past, and they had not had their attackers directly in front of them.

Once the green medic took his leave and Ironhide sealed the door shut behind him, Prowl finally spoke, as much for the benefit of those present as for the recording Jazz had been tasked with keeping, "The purpose of this meeting is to document and explain all aspects of the incident which transpired in the hangar eleven orns ago. Each mech involved will be granted the opportunity to recount the incident from his perspective as well as provide any other information he feels is pertinent. We will then assess the potential danger Hound and Wheeljack pose to the remaining Autobots versus their history among us and come to a consensus regarding their fate. Present and given a counting vote are Optimus Prime, myself, officers Jazz, Ratchet, Red Alert, and Ironhide, and scientist Perceptor. Red Alert and Perceptor have already been briefed regarding the nature of Hound and Wheeljack's crime as well as the nature of their mech subtype. Red Alert, Perceptor, please confirm for the record that you do not require any further explanation as to their true nature."

"I confirm," Red Alert said.

"I confirm," Perceptor repeated, then added, "I already knew about the cuculid mech subtype before the briefing."

"Noted," Prowl continued. "Does anyone have any questions regarding the nature of this interrogation before we begin?" He glanced to his fellow Autobots for a few nanokliks. "Then, we will start with Ratchet. As the victim of the incident, please provide your account of the events of that night to the best of your ability."

When all attention in the room turned to him, the medic, normally one of the most outspoken and opinionated mechs aboard the _Ark_ , found his shoulders raising tensely as if he could physically make himself smaller. His hateful glare finally broke away from Wheeljack to instead stare intently at his own red hands clasped tightly together on the table in front of him. After eleven orns of thinking about and replaying that night in the back of his mind, after nearly two weeks of desperately wanting to tell anyone about what had happened to him and the parasite he had been carrying, Ratchet suddenly found talking about it to be the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do, and as such, his vocalizer was laced with the static of over-stressed systems when he finally managed to speak.

"I'd been performing surgeries related to damage from the solar flare all orn. I wasn't sure how many more were going to crop up by the next day, so I made an arrangement with Hoist for him to take the night shift early so I could get some rest. I found myself unable to fall offline - that's not unusual after an orn filled with surgical procedures. My processor gets keyed up thinking about nothing but the procedures themselves and how I could work more efficiently in the future, and that makes it difficult, sometimes impossible, for me to shut down and perform a proper defrag. I needed to do something mindless to bring myself back down, and driving always works." Ratchet forced himself to look to the officers present; all knew about his tendency to go on unannounced, late-night drives, but he felt it necessary to clarify for the record. "I didn't go far - I never do. I just made three circles around the volcano, once down to the lake, and came back. I was gone four, four and a half breems at most, and I had my communicator active the whole time in case anyone needed me even though I was off-duty. Huffer was at his post when I left and should have logged my departure - I don't know where he went while I was gone or why he wasn't present...later."

Here, Ratchet's gaze lowered to the table once more, and he had to swallow past the sudden glitch in his vocalizer. "When I approached the _Ark_ on return, I...remember seeing movement in the hangar. I didn't think anything of it - I know I'm not the only one who likes to drive at night." He shook his head. "That's my last clear memory. The blank in my memory block starts before I actually got to the hangar." He had to pause again and take a deep ventilation in an attempt to slow his suddenly rapidly pulsing spark, and he was thankful for the gentle brush of a large foot against his own as Optimus covertly reminded him that he was no longer alone. "The next thing I remember is the South corridor, almost to the medbay. I couldn't walk straight - I couldn't _see_ straight. All I could think about was getting to the medbay and not purging on the floor in the process. I...I thought I'd been attacked by the Decepticons, at first. I felt a foreign object inside me and thought it was a bomb. When I finally got an accurate scan, I still didn't know..." One red hand raised to scrub down Ratchet's weary face. "I didn't know what it was until I cross-referenced my symptoms and a description in the medical database. Given the movement I remembered seeing in the hangar, I came to the conclusion that I was attacked by—" Parasites. Beasts. _Monsters_. Before he could stop himself, Ratchet's gaze fell on the soft blue glow of his former best friend's optics. "...that I was attacked by fellow Autobots."

Ratchet looked at his hands again. "I had no idea who attacked me, and I could only fully rule out a handful of Autobots. I tried to contact First Aid, but the...whatever they did to my spark kept me silent. I was unable to inform him of my condition, nor was I able to show it to anyone in the _Ark_. I tried leaving notes only to erase them as soon as they were finished, _if_ I managed to finish. All I could do was try investigating on my own for whoever my attackers might have been and panic about the...the thing inside me. I tried for a few orns to...to eradicate it on my own, but all my attempts were in vain. I averaged a cycle and a half of recharge every night since the attack, rarely uninterrupted." Ratchet offlined his optics. "In addition to my regular duties, that's all I did until yesterday."

When Ratchet fell silent, Optimus brushed his foot against the medic's again as Prowl spoke once more, "Ratchet, please state for the record the extent of the injuries you suffered as a result of the attack."

Ratchet wanted to reach over and punch Prowl for forcing him to think about the physical aspect of his ordeal, but he knew a record of damage was standard procedure. Since no one had examined him after the attack and he had purged the diagnostic scans he performed on himself, an audio recount was all he could provide. Still, at least the answer was easy regarding _injuries_. "As far as _physical_ damage goes, there wasn't much," he answered truthfully. "Some scratches of varying depth on my sides and hips—" His gaze snapped to Wheeljack as the engineer shifted almost unnoticeably in his seat. "—and I later found what looked like a small puncture in my abdominal plating." His gaze flicked slightly to the side when Hound shifted as well. "...nothing major, and it was all healed by my own self-repair systems by the end of the next orn. Internally, there was...almost no damage at all - just, again, a few scrapes from whatever punctured my abdominal plating. The scratches threw off my investigation for a while, though - they...they looked like they were made by claws."

"The silicone sheathing from the pod did not cause any issue?" Perceptor asked.

"No - it...it was gone by the time my physical injuries had healed." Ratchet took his turn to shift uncomfortably. "I believe most, if not all, of the...excess silicone and nanite solution washed out when...when I cleaned myself the morning after."

"And, to your knowledge, there is no permanent damage to your spark?" Red Alert asked.

Ratchet shook his head. "To my knowledge, and according to all of the scans Hoist and I ran last night and this morning, no. Once the pod ruptured and my systems came out of shock, my spark was back to normal." His gaze shot across the table once more when he heard Wheeljack whisper his barely audible thanks to Primus.

"Thank you, Ratchet," Optimus spoke and could no longer prevent himself from reaching over to place a large, blue hand on his chief medic's white shoulder. "I know this was difficult."

"Do you have anything more to add?" Prowl asked.

Ratchet glanced to Prowl then turned his head to look fully at the two mechs across from him once more before he answered, "...not yet."

"Very well." The Autobot vice commander turned to look upon the two mechs on trial as well. "Hound, Wheeljack, please thoroughly recount the incident from your perspective, including your motives. Stick to the night in question unless otherwise asked. You can provide any additional information you feel is pertinent as well as plead your case afterward."

White scientist and green scout exchanged a reassuring glance as they each pressed one foot more firmly against the other's for support before Wheeljack moved his attention back to the assembled mechs and asked softly, "I...before we do that, can— ...may I explain a few things regardin' our physiology? It'll make our account of that night easier to understand than if I explained it after." He watched as the officers glanced between one another, his vocalizer tight and shoulders tense. He knew they were discussing his request over the officers' frequency to which he, of course, no longer had access. Hound's foot was actually on top of his by now, rubbing tightly back and forth, though Wheeljack was uncertain whether Hound's movement was meant to comfort him or himself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but, according to the white mech's chronometer, had only been two kliks, Optimus faced them and replied, "Yes, you may, but keep it to information which can be proven via an examination. As our knowledge of your kind is limited at best, we require some leeway where we can determine the truth of your statements."

Wheeljack nodded, tension bleeding from his shoulders and winglets. "Of course - everythin's pretty easy to prove anyway. Our anatomy's..." He struggled for the right word. "...weird. Compared to a normal mech's, anyway. I've...I've actually been modifyin' our schematics in the database ever since we signed up because a full scan makes it glaringly obvious that we're...not normal." He flicked his gaze briefly to Ratchet, then lowered his optics again. "Ratch'— ...Ratchet should be able to confirm that I always updated my own schematics, myself, and I always made sure I was the one on duty for schematic updates when it was Hound's turn." The other officers moved their attention briefly to Ratchet who, though visibly stunned as the truth of Wheeljack's statement registered, numbly nodded his confirmation of the smaller mech's words. "I'd scan us, make sure nothin' was out of order, then purge the scan and change the time stamp on the modified schematic I made back on Cybertron. Only changes I ever had to make were if we got any damage that left permanent marks." Once everyone's attention was back on him, Wheeljack cycled a shaky ventilation. "But I digress...no surprise there."

He shook his head and continued, "The thing 'bout us is our sparks are highly unstable. We go back and forth constantly - sometimes from klik to klik - between givin' off too much or too little energy. The norm, 'specially in the last quarter vorn, is too much - so much that our bodies will malfunction, maybe even fatally, if we can't purge it somehow. It's the excess spark energy that...compels us to..." He looked to Hound helplessly then back to the others. "Well. Breed." Wheeljack lowered his gaze submissively once more at the near unanimous uncomfortable squirm. "Basically, we have to find a host and purge the excess energy into a pod, or we start havin' major glitches - mood swings and blackouts are the main problem, but it ain't long before that leads to fried circuitry, melted wirin', HUD fritzes, chronometer and temperature gauge breakdowns, equilibrium gauges breakin'...and that's just the short list. In the long run, if the energy doesn't go into a pod, we start to malfunction to the point of drawin' attention to ourselves. That runs the risk of bein' discovered, and then...well. Back on Cybertron, that could only lead to one thing: enforcers hunt us down, and...we die." His gaze fell further until he was staring into his lap, barely feeling the reassuring rub of his mate's foot.

Wheeljack continued softly, "It's why I went into science and medicine. Even _we_ don't know anythin' about what makes us work or _why_ we are the way we are or why we have to propagate this way. We don't even know...exactly what we did that night or how it works - I mean, I have the basic idea based on our anatomy, but if you asked me what goes on inside a mech to make the pod or how the pod develops from there, I got no idea. But even though I don't know how everythin' works _physically_ , I knew if I could at least understand what's goin' on with our _sparks_ \- if I could understand _what_ the energy imbalance is and what causes it, I could find some way for us to _control_ it." He lifted his head once again. He did not want them to doubt his sincerity if he avoided looking at them because of his own shame. "This...what we did to Ratchet - we've worked our whole lives tryin' to keep this from happenin'. We developed knowin' full-well what bein' a host does to a mech. Downshift, my host, was...I guess a bit better adjusted than perhaps most, but Hound's..." Wheeljack glanced to Hound to see if he wanted to add anything, but he was not surprised that Hound's own gaze was averted. The old hurt from Scorch had never truly healed.

"I devoted myself to understandin' how we work," Wheeljack resumed. "How we work and how to keep our true nature secret as well as keep us from hurtin' anyone. On Cybertron, when I was in the Science Academy, I designed a combination of tranquilizers and energy sinks that we've been usin' ever since, and they _worked_. It dispersed the excess spark energy and kept our heads clear, and we managed to live as normal a life as possible."

"What happened?" Perceptor asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "What changed which caused this incident to transpire?"

Wheeljack sighed. "Best I've ever been able to figure is we were fragged up royally by how long we were in stasis after the _Ark_ crashed. We never had a problem before that - the energy sinks an' tranquilizers worked without a hitch until we woke up here on Earth. After that...it's been all but impossible to regulate. Every time I figured out a pattern, it shifted. Every time I found a combo of drugs that worked, one or both of us suddenly developed a negative reaction to one of 'em. Guess it had built up over all that time to a point that it _had_ to be let out the...natural way. But we still did our best to keep it under control - we had to resort to purgin' the energy manually. Hound went on extra long scoutin' missions so he could unleash the charge in the wilderness, and I..." He shifted in his seat, embarrassed. "Well. Lemme jus' say all those explosions in my— ...the lab...weren't _actually_ me bein' careless. Primus - they taught me better than that." He shook his head. "I got where I used the excess to power things when I could get away with it...includin'—"

" _Don't_." Hound's abrupt, firm word caused Ratchet and Red Alert to jump in alarm, but his attention was fully on the white mech next to him.

"They deserve to know," Wheeljack countered softly. "Ratchet especially. We built 'em together." He turned away from his mate's pleading optics and said, "I funneled my excess energy into each one of the Dinobots' bodies when they were bein' built." He forced himself to keep looking forward as optics brightened and jaws dropped around the room, though he dared not guess whether it was from disbelief, simple surprise, or abject horror. "That...I swear to Primus I don't know how it happened, but that's...that's why they're true mechs." Now that the truth was out, Wheeljack's words tumbled forth in a desperate stream, and he was unable to stop himself. "I had no idea anythin' like that would happen - I _swear_ I thought it would just give 'em a temporary power boost, make 'em run more efficiently at best, or just make 'em blow up like it did with other stuff. Please, _please_ , don't take any of this out on them - they don't know anythin', I swear, an' they're nothin' like us. They're not monsters like us - they're just normal mechs like all of you, so _please_ —"

"Wheeljack - _Wheeljack_!" Optimus finally managed to interrupt the shaking scientist. "As...shocking and unprecedented as this information is, the Dinobots are not the mechs on trial here. Agreed?" Prime looked to the other officers who eventually all nodded numbly. "The...true nature of the Dinobots can be discussed at a later time, if necessary - right now, our focus is on you, Hound, and the incident involving Ratchet eleven orns ago."

Wheeljack pulled a few shuddering ventilations to calm himself as he nodded shakily. "R-Right...sorry. Sorry." He paused for another few nanokliks to fully rein in his emotions before he allowed himself to resume. "At...at any rate, we've been fightin' against our own sparks ever since we woke up from stasis. We did our best - _I_ did my best - and we managed to maintain it for this long. It took a lot more jugglin' and careful manipulation of medical records, schematics, the storeroom, and our schedules, but...we still made it work. A few blackouts here an' there, a few collapses or system malfunctions I had to come up with an excuse for on the fly, but we still kept it relatively under control..."

"Until the solar flare," Hound said.

"...yeah. Until that."

Hound finally brought himself to look to the officers as he continued for his emotionally exhausted mate, "We were both among the mechs who blacked out. From what 'Jack figures, the solar flare fried our energy sinks, and those have always been our best precaution. Without them, the tranqs could only last so long. Which...which brings us to that night." Hound dimmed his optics solemnly. "I was in the rec room repairing one of the lights. There were...I think four others there, all watching a movie."

"I can confirm that," Jazz finally spoke. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking or how he was taking all of the new and surprising information. Hound could only hope the answer was "as well as can be expected". "I was there, an' I saw 'im. The others were 'Sides, Blue, an' Windcharger."

Hound hesitated and waited for Optimus to gesture for him to continue before he spoke once more, "I...I was having trouble concentrating. I don't even know if I actually fixed that light in the long run. My spark chamber felt like it was going to explode. I was having greyouts, and I remember having to sit down on the floor a few times just to keep myself from falling instead. I don't know how I covered it up - maybe the tools were on the floor. I just know that all I could think about was I needed to finish what I was doing and go find Wheeljack for another tranq. I stuck around long enough to see the end of the movie - which I don't remember anything about - and...the last thing I remember is the hallway outside the rec room."

"I'm afraid I don't remember much more than he does," Wheeljack spoke again. "I was in the lab tryin' to _find_ the fraggin' tranqs. The pressure in my spark chamber was bad enough that I remember wakin' up on the floor at least twice. Guess the cameras in the lab were some of many that weren't workin', or somebody shoulda seen me." He shook his head. "I don't remember leavin'. I vaguely remember Hound callin' me, but I don't remember what he said or meetin' him anywhere. Next thing I knew, we were both in my quarters, and it was the next mornin'. We were both covered in silicone and dead nanites...we both knew immediately what happened. What we did. When we blacked out, instinct must've taken over - our core programmin' kicked in and did what we wouldn't let ourselves do otherwise."

Hound continued, "We tried to figure out who we attacked from the klik we left Wheeljack's room so we could do _something_ to rectify this. I know - _we_ know - what we did was unforgivable, but...we still had to try. All we knew from the paint transfers we found on each other was that the mech had red paint, but..."

Jazz nodded, understanding the problem. "'Cept 'bout half the Autobots have red paint on 'em," he finished for the scout.

Hound nodded. "Exactly. With just that to go off of, we had to get creative." He nodded to his mate. "I tried going off of scents, he tried coming up with external trackers and scanners, but between all of the other repairs going on around the _Ark_ and the charged atmosphere from the solar flare making it almost impossible for me to reliably smell anything, we either couldn't or didn't have the opportunity to find anything that really worked."

"What were you planning to do once you _did_ discover the identity of your victim?" Red Alert asked, the light of his optics narrowing slightly.

"Confess," Wheeljack answered without hesitation. "We weren't gonna hide it or anythin' - before we even left my quarters that first mornin', we'd agreed we were gonna confess and...hope for the best. We'd actually given up figurin' out who we attacked and were gonna confess yesterday as soon as we were both off-duty, but then the 'Cons attacked."

< _Hope for 'the best'?_ > Ironhide repeated, curious and perhaps a little suspicious.

Hound and Wheeljack exchanged a nervous and frightened glance before Hound answered, "We...we were hoping we would just be exiled. Stripped of our Autobrands and cast out. Maybe...maybe be allowed to take the podling with us so as not to burden the host with raising it the way our hosts were - before it ruptured, anyway. We...we'd already discussed ideal places on Earth we could go to where we could take care of ourselves but no one, Autobot or human, would ever see us again. Where...we could be forgotten." He lowered his gaze submissively as his words trailed off, and Wheeljack took his turn to rub his foot comfortingly against his mate's as the officers looked between one another, their expressions unreadable.

After a long klik, Prowl looked to them and asked, "And you feel this was the best case scenario?"

"Of course," Wheeljack replied. "We hurt Ratchet, however unintentionally. We..." His gaze flicked to his mate's briefly who nodded, and the white mech turned back to Prowl. "We lied to all of you every klik of every orn you knew us. We did absolutely everythin' we could to keep our true nature secret and just...pretended we were like you. We've lived a lie our whole existence in a vain attempt to find somewhere we belonged. But we know now that we don't - we were just deludin' ourselves thinkin' otherwise. We should have known we wouldn't be able to stop this from happenin' forever." Wheeljack finally forced himself to look fully at Ratchet again, forced himself to only look into his former friend's pale blue optics and not his expression for fear of seeing disgust, revulsion, or the naked hatred from before. "I am so sorry. From the core of our sparks, we never meant this to happen - to you or anyone."

"If...if you choose to execute us instead of exile, we understand," Hound said softly. "I just...whatever your decision, I only ask for one more orn so Wheeljack can say goodbye to the Dinobots."

A heavy silence fell over the room. No one was willing to break it, least of all Ratchet. For all his anger and hatred and hurt from before, he now simply felt drained. He still remembered what he had endured the last eleven orns - the terror, the pod inside him, the paranoia, the sense of betrayal - and he doubted he would ever forget it for as long as he lived. However, it was easy to hate a mech who hurt others purposefully. It was _easy_ to vilify a mech who intentionally singled out and violated another. Ratchet had an entire war's experience in reviling the worst of Cybertron, Autobot and Decepticon alike. War brought out the worst in any mech. However, it also proved that even the most unbelievable and unlikely situations could, in fact, come true.

Throughout his long career as a medic, before and especially during the war, Ratchet had seen a lot of strange and bizarre glitches. He had diagnosed most and created workarounds for many. Core programming glitches were disturbingly common - Red Alert and Prowl were living proof of that. The rush of battle and the trauma of interrogations caused glitches in base programming seven times out of ten. The majority were harmless or at least temporary, but Ratchet knew devastating and permanent problems also could arise with unnerving ease, especially if a mech's core programming was linked to his spark. Blaster's core code was centered around splitting his spark to create cassettes, and at some point in the war, the large mech had been the only survivor of a Decepticon siege of his outpost. No one had ever been able to get him to tell the full story of what happened, but all Ratchet had needed was to diagnose the trauma-induced glitch which linked Blaster's mood to his spark.

Blaster had always been hot-tempered and easy to enrage, but after his ordeal, if Blaster allowed his emotions to get away from him, if he lost control and became too angry, his spark split without his consent. It made no sense, but glitches rarely did - over-caution should have led to a mech taking precautions to keep himself safe, yet Red Alert's glitch of persistent paranoia sent him into seizures and knocked him offline, leaving him completely vulnerable to every peril, real or imagined, which had caused his paranoia in the first place. As such, because of his own glitch, a thoroughly unprepared and emotionally wrought Blaster Sparked Eject, Rewind, and Ramhorn before Ratchet was able to fully diagnose the problem and finally coached Blaster in how to keep his emotions in check, and with the help of Tracks, Blaster's best friend, he had so far only lost control once more to Spark Steeljaw.

Just as with Blaster, a cuculid mech's core code was likely aimed completely toward propagation, so it made sense that it would be linked to their sparks. Core coding linked to a mech's spark was a tricky thing and quick to cause problems, and what Ratchet just heard from the two mechs across from him was a classic case of a spark and core programming clash. The massive amounts of spark energy the two cuculid mechs produced with nowhere for it to go must have glitched their programming and sent it into a desperate need to propagate their subtype. Ratchet wondered, if he was to actually analyze their coding, if he might have found a corrupted line which convinced them on the most basic level that they would die if they did not breed. Given the physical side effects Wheeljack described, it was probably not a far leap, especially since, considering the state of Cybertron, they were more than likely the last of their kind. Whether they realized it or not, their most basic functions were probably telling them they were their subtype's last hope of not going extinct.

Ratchet was the one to finally break the silence, his voice rough with turbulent, confused emotions as he asked, "Why? All the vorns we've worked together, fought together, and helped one another, I thought we trusted one another equally. So why didn't you tell me about any of this? Why didn't you trust me to try to help you?"

"Would you have?" Wheeljack countered. "Can you look me in the optic and tell me without a shadow of a doubt that if I told you, 'By the way, Ratch', I'm one of those mechs from those overblown horror stories they told in Near-Fatal Obstruction Removal 301 - yeah, we're real', you woulda just sat there and said, 'Oh, cool. How does that work?'? What would you have done, _really_?"

Ratchet closed his mouth and lowered his gaze to his hands still folded in front of him on the table, and he heard his fellow officers shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"That's why," Hound said needlessly. "We're all too afraid of each other."

Silence spread between the mechs present again before Prowl managed to ask, "Do any of you have anything more to add before we discuss the verdict?" Hound and Wheeljack merely shook their heads. Ratchet did not look up from his hands.

< _Need me to come in and take 'em back to the brig?_ > Ironhide asked softly after switching over to the officers-only frequency.

< _No,_ > Optimus answered. < _Not yet. Taking them back will only run further risk of the others seeing them and asking questions._ > The Prime moved his gaze to his side and looked down at the quiet medic next to him with another gentle, reassuring press of his foot against Ratchet's. < _Ratchet, you're the victim here. The rest of us could discuss this until nightfall, but in the long run, the choice is yours. You deserve to have the final vote regarding their fate. What...do you think should be done?_ >

Ratchet finally forced himself to unfold his hands so he could rub one down his face, weary physically as well as emotionally. < _...Wheeljack was barely into his first vorn as a fully-upgraded mech when I first met him,_ > he said softly without lifting his head from his hand. < _...or, I guess I should say "adulthood". I don't know how his kind develops, but I doubt it's by his spark being physically transferred to externally built protoforms like your standard mechling. At any rate, he was fragging young - so was I. I was in my second vorn. We met at orientation at the Academy. We studied together even if we weren't taking the same classes, we bunked together, we confided in one another, and we graduated together, even after we went into separate majors. Even after that, we constantly checked up on each other, and when the war started, we joined the Cause together._ >

< _Ratch'..._ > Ironhide started, but Ratchet cut him off.

< _The point is that one of the few constants I've ever had in my life for as long as I can remember has been Wheeljack. And I'm having...Primus, I can't **believe** the number of things I never noticed before that are so **obvious** now that I'm thinking back on them._ >

Perceptor tilted his head slightly, curious. < _Like what?_ >

The medic frowned and finally lowered his hand but still did not lift his gaze from the table as he answered, < _Wheeljack's a friendly mech - always has been. He gets along with everybody, even the worst of us, but he doesn't go out of his way to actually **interact** with anyone. If he can get away with it, he'll just isolate himself in his lab, surround himself with his projects. It never seemed odd before now - why would a mech who gets along with and tries so hard to be friendly with everyone **never** make an effort to hang out with anyone? He's always been like that - in the Academy, if the rest of our class went out to celebrate the end of finals or even just to wind down after a hard day, he'd rather go back to his dorm and be alone._ > Ratchet's gaze finally flicked upward slightly to look at the pair across from him. Once they realized the officers were conferring in private, the two condemned mechs had turned their attention to each other and no longer bothered to hide the way they brushed whatever parts of their bodies they could against one another for comfort.

< _Hound too,_ Jazz suddenly added. He had his arms crossed over his hood, his foot twitching under the table in thought as he stared intently at the blue stripe on his chest.  < _I don't know 'im nearly as well as Trailbreaker does, but I've **seen** the way he acts. He'll hang out with everybody, but only in groups where he won't be the center of attention. Only mechs I've ever seen 'im hang with one-on-one are 'Breaker an' Mirage. I asked 'Raj how that happened a while back; how did Hound get 'im to come outta his shell when most of the rest of us have tried an' failed? 'Raj said Hound told 'im he "knew what it was like to feel unwanted"._ >

< _And there are other things,_ > Ratchet continued. < _Things I didn't notice before that seem obvious now - how many of us have walked into Wheeljack's lab and found him in his alt mode?_ > He glanced briefly around the group to see everyone give a short, quiet nod, followed by a noise of affirmation from Ironhide. < _He always said he "thinks better" that way. But...the description he just gave about his spark and the massive amounts of energy it gives off - that could **easily** fry a transformation cog. All those times could have actually been a spark-based malfunction, like he said. Primus, just the **thought** that his spark alone gives off enough energy to activate and power all five Dinobots is enough to make me cringe. I can't imagine how painful that kind of excess energy has to be, and they have to **live** with that on an ornly basis?!_ >

< _Ratchet. You're avoiding the question,_ > Prowl interrupted softly, though his hesitance to do so was evident in his tone. < _As the victim, their fate is ultimately your choice. What is it?_ >

The medic scowled at his hands again. When Prowl pointed it out, Ratchet felt a nanoklik of disbelief when he realized he was actually _defending_ his attackers. At the same time, however, he could not help but think back to his vorns of friendship with Wheeljack and the sparkfelt words from just a few breems ago. Knowing now what he did about the events leading to the most traumatic eleven orns of Ratchet's existence, the word "attacker" no longer felt appropriate.

Ratchet answered with conviction, < _We're not killing them. As...As horrible as what I went through was, and as angry as I always will be for it, they still don't deserve to be killed. I...I believe them when they say they had no control over themselves. Look how long they've been among us. If this was intentional, they would have done it and disappeared a long, long time ago. With their core programming quite possibly linked at the base level to such volatile sparks, a glitch like this was bound to happen. Look at Blaster. As much as he cares for his little mechs **now** , he's a walking time bomb - we're all just counting the orns until his rivalry with Soundwave sends him into another rage, and then we'll have tiny accident number five running around underfoot._ >

< _...exile, then?_ > Red Alert asked reluctantly. The medic folded his hands together and lifted them so he could dim his optics and press his forehead against them. He wished they would not leave the choice to him.

< _If I may say something..._ > Perceptor spoke to draw attention away from the distraught medic, though he did not lift his gaze from the table in front of him. < _There is a phrase everyone keeps saying, Hound and Wheeljack included, which discomfits me on many levels - that is "we don't know". "We don't know" how their kind operates. "We don't know" why their sparks are so volatile. Even **they** "don't know" anything about how their own bodies work or exactly **what** they did to Ratchet on the physical level._ > The scientist frowned softly as he finally lifted his head to look at the officers. < _As a scientist, I must ask how it is possible for a Cybertronian subtype - a sub **species** , if you will - to be so ancient and so ingrained in myth and legend yet literally **nothing** is known about them._ >

Red Alert drummed his fingers along his forearm thoughtfully as he considered that question before he responded, < _Ironhide. You said their kind was included in your training - what all did that entail?_ >

The weapons specialist, too, went silent for a klik as he reminisced and chose his words carefully. < _Mostly just stories, really,_ > he finally answered. < _There were some pictures of pods that had been removed from hosts, but that's 'bout it. No real history or anythin' - most common theory was that they were Quintesson weapons._ >

< _I remember you saying that,_ > Optimus remarked. < _How could the Quintessons have used them as weapons?_ >

< _They look like us,_ > Ironhide said, though his words no longer carried the conviction they did before as he considered what Perceptor said. < _They act like us. They hide among us and capture us to use us as hosts for their mechlets because Vector Sigma won't create for 'em, an' they can't create for themselves. Rumor was they implanted the host mechs with cuculid mechlets who'd be loyal to the Quints._ >

< _I can't help but notice that you keep using words like "theory" and "rumor", Ironhide,_ > Prowl remarked.

< _...yeah. I was noticin' that too._ >

< _They didn't "capture" me,_ > Ratchet pointed out. < _I wasn't taken to some hive and used as an egg sac like wasps use spiders._ >

< _Blaster "looks like us" an' "acts like us",_ > Jazz also pointed out. < _An' he certainly has a unique way of makin' bitlets. S'just that he keeps it all inside._ >

Perceptor nodded. < _And I remember a time when spark splitters were seen as freaks because of their unique way of propagating and the miniature mechs their methods produced. They were eventually accepted, perhaps **because** their unusual way is self-contained. A mech who does not understand it is never involved in it, so he feels unthreatened._ >

< _Unlike cuculid mechs' method of propagating,_ > Optimus finished.

< _Exactly. However they were originally created, whether it was by the Quintessons or simply a result of a mutation such as spark splitters, they **need** a third mech involved. But why? No one knows - not even they do because **our** kind has been so afraid of them and how they propagate that we have never taken the time to try **understanding** them. Did anyone else notice when Wheeljack called **himself** a monster when he first told us about the Dinobots?_ > The others nodded or made a soft noise of agreement. < _I am inclined to believe they may be just as afraid of themselves as we are due to all of the unknown factors._ >

< _I think that fear goes both ways,_ > Ratchet said softly. He had been watching the pair of mechs across from him since Perceptor first spoke. Wheeljack and Hound had long since given up simply seeking comfort from one another under the table - once they knew the officers were no longer paying close attention, Hound had shifted his seat as closely to Wheeljack's as he could so the white mech's winglets could brush over him. Hound, his chin resting atop Wheeljack's bowed head, had been fighting to keep his expression blank as they waited and counted every klik the officers conferred, but Ratchet could see the naked terror in both their optics. Wheeljack stared at his lap as if he was staring into the face of death - and Ratchet knew that, as far as Wheeljack could know, he _was_.

< _'Course they're afraid of us,_ > Jazz said. < _They think we're gonna kill 'em._ >

Prowl pointed out, < _As far as they know, they only have two options before them this orn: exile or death._ >

< _And who's to say every member of their kind doesn't feel the same way?_ > Optimus asked. < _What if they stuck to the shadows and hid among us because they **knew** they would be hunted down and killed if anyone knew what they were? Ironhide himself said that was exactly what he was trained to do. Their entire subtype was eradicated because of fear and lack of understanding._ >

< _...does it have to be that way?_ > Ratchet asked softly, and no one answered for a brief klik, each mech struggling with his own opinions, his own beliefs, some of which had been dramatically upturned since the interrogation began.

Finally, Perceptor replied slowly, < _Perhaps we could study them. Work together to see why they are so different, what makes their sparks so unstable. The compulsion to assault a third mech in order to propagate seems to be tied completely to the instability of their sparks. If we can study them and understand how they work and why they are this way, perhaps we can find a way to co-exist without fear. Wheeljack himself said that was why he became a scientist - to understand how his own spark works so he could stop being afraid of **himself** and what he might do._ >

Optimus' gaze lowered to Ratchet. < _Ratchet,_ > he said. < _While Perceptor's argument is sound, I do not wish to influence your decision. The choice is yours. As the victim, would...this be acceptable?_ >

Ratchet did not look at him. He had not been able to look away from the frightened pair across the table, had not been able to dredge up the hatred and revulsion from before, nor had he truly tried after he first lost hold of it. All he could feel now was sadness and regret. As he watched the mated pair and saw his own fear from the past eleven orns reflected in their faces, as he watched them count the nanokliks of silence like a condemned mech counted steps to the smelter, Ratchet knew Perceptor was right. They had all allowed themselves to be ruled by fear, not just in the past two weeks but their entire existence whether they realized it or not. It had not been a simple spark-based glitch which had led to this - it was simple fear of the unknown. All species lashed out when afraid; some just lashed out differently. However, if they could just stop hissing at the shadows, if they could stop and look more closely into the darkness, they could meet halfway and find a way out together.

< _Yes,_ > Ratchet finally answered. < _If **they** agree to it as well, then it's acceptable to me._ > He cut off any remarks from the others at first to add, < _**But**. I'll have no part in the studies. Not yet. Not for a while. I...need time. I understand now that this was all just a series of terribly unfortunate events, but even knowing now everything that lead up to it and the truth behind it all, what I went through was still..._ > Ratchet swallowed against his suddenly tight vocalizer as, for a brief klik, he thought he felt the pressure of the pod against his fuel tank once more. < _I need time,_ > he finished softly.

< _Of course,_ > Optimus responded with a brush of his foot against his friend's before he turned to look between his fellow officers once more.

Ratchet lost track of the conversation from there. They discussed limitations, surveillance, terms of sentence - every now and then, Ratchet caught a question being asked of him, and he let his attention wander back to the discussion long enough to answer it truthfully, but for the most part, he ignored them. His part of the discussion was finished, and he was drained. He had entered the room that morning not knowing what to expect, not understanding anything which had transpired the last two weeks. All he had known was that he was afraid and hurt and that he desperately wanted the world to be right again.

As the medic looked to the huddled and frightened mechs before him, he felt, for the first time in what seemed like eons, that the world might actually find a way to be "right" once more.

"Hound. Wheeljack," Prowl finally spoke, and four terrified blue optics shot up to look straight at him. "We have reached a decision."

Optimus continued for him, his voice low and soothing, "We came to realize that, in the long run, all of us have made mistakes whether we realized it or not. Our mutual fear of one another led to this incident, and that fear was fueled by one simple thing: a lack of understanding. That lack of understanding, that refusal to communicate and learn _why_ we have feared one another for so long, is to blame. Your silence regarding your true nature and your physical turmoil which culminated in the incident in the hangar is not to be overlooked; however, it is clear to us now why you could not come forth for help. This cannot happen again. So, we have presented a plan to Ratchet to amend this mutual oversight, and he has agreed to it on the condition that the both of you _also_ agree.

"You will both be remanded to Wheeljack's quarters where you will be kept under surveillance for a time not exceeding five years on this planet. During this time, Perceptor and Skyfire will work together with Hoist and First Aid to study you. The tests will be as non-invasive as possible, merely to help us all understand how your bodies and sparks work in order to avoid this ever happening again. If you feel, even for a nanoklik, that you may be building up to a repeat of this incident, you _will_ inform an officer immediately. The study will also function as an attempt to fill in the gaps in your kind's history so we might finally understand _why_ you are so different. In the meantime, you will be allowed to resume your previous duties as Autobots with the possibility of re-earning your former ranks." As their Prime spoke, Hound and Wheeljack's optics grew brighter, Hound's jaw dropping in disbelief. "Ratchet has emphasized that he needs time and space from the two of you to recover, but he is willing to continue fighting and working alongside both of you under supervision. Outside Wheeljack's duties in the medbay or any injuries Hound may receive which send him there, you two are not to approach him intentionally without prior permission directly from him or another officer, _or_ unless he is the only medic on duty during an emergency, until such a time as _he_ has deemed himself recovered. Only he has the authority to lift this restriction."

Here, Optimus lifted a hand and held up one finger to ensure he had their full, if mystified, attention. "One last thing: no more lies. Everyone aboard the _Ark_ will be told what you are. We cannot reach a mutual understanding if you continue to hide your true nature. This is the reason for the surveillance - you will be monitored as much for your fellow Autobots' safety as for _yours_ should anyone try to lash out at you in fear."

Finally, he fell silent and allowed the two shocked mechs to fully absorb his words and comprehend their fate. Ratchet could see their complete incredulity as they looked at one another - he could see in their faces the way they silently asked one another if what they were just told could have possibly been real. They could not believe what they had just heard - their "best case" scenario saw them hiding in the wilderness for the rest of their existence, pariahs destined to never see another fellow Cybertronian again. That there could have _possibly_ been a better fate in store for them had never crossed their minds for a fraction of a nanoklik, and that realization made Ratchet's spark clench in its chamber.

"Do you agree to these terms?" Prowl asked after a few kliks, and the two stunned mechs could only nod vigorously in response, vocalizers numb.

"In that case," Jazz spoke with a small, half-grin as Ironhide finally entered and began to remove their restraints. "Hound, go gather yer things an' move in with 'Jack."

Ratchet finally lowered his gaze from them as they stood and stared once more at his red hands folded on the table. He heard their near-endless stammered professions of gratitude, their voices filled with so much raw emotion they could barely speak. He heard the brush of metal as they gripped each other tightly in the desperate embrace of mechs who had just stared down death and lived. He heard them slowly make their way out, followed by Ironhide and Red Alert who needed to begin work on the agreed-upon surveillance. He heard the other mechs in the room stand and begin to leave, each one stopping to touch his back or squeeze his shoulder. After a few kliks, only Optimus remained, still seated beside the emotionally exhausted medic.

They simply sat quietly for a long while. Optimus did not move or try to inquire as to Ratchet's frame of mind. He simply sat with his forearm brushing the smaller mech's, there to provide solace and strength as well as to reassure Ratchet that it was over. He was no longer alone. His eleven-orn turmoil had finally ended. The storm had passed, the clouds had parted, and the warm light of a bright star finally shined upon the future once more.

Ratchet shivered, and Optimus merely pressed his forearm a little more firmly against the medic's.

It was the most comforting gesture he could have asked for.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

**_21:54_  
372 days, 4 hours, 32 minutes since the attack**

The humans had a saying - "time heals all wounds". It had taken a long time for the Autobots to stop scoffing at it. The phrase made sense for a species which was born, grew, lived, and died in the span of a single vorn, but as a species which had been born and thrived when humanity was still little more than a glimmer in Earth's evolutionary plan, Cybertronians as a whole felt they needed a lot more than just "time" to heal depending on the wound. They hurt one another deeply and unforgivably. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, they left destruction in their wake and rent scars which lasted eons. However, the Autobots eventually came to realize that no species was completely without compassion. Cybertronians were capable of great pain and harshness, but they were equally capable of kindness and forgiveness. Where one sowed destruction, another followed to mend the damage. Where one tormented, another waited to heal. For every hurt, there was an equal amount of care, sometimes more. So, perhaps it was true that "time healed all wounds" - sometimes, it just took longer.

The corridors of the _Ark_ at night never quite looked the same again. No matter how much time had passed, Ratchet still sometimes expected the hallway to twist and swim before him as he passed through the section leading past the infirmary. Even now, as he had nearly every night since the unfortunate incident in the hangar, he paused at the door to the medbay and assured himself that he did not need to scan himself and ensure that he was truly the only one occupying his body. No matter how much time had passed, Ratchet still entered the hangar with trepidation - slowly fading trepidation, but trepidation nonetheless.

Truthfully, he thought he was doing quite well. A half-klik pause outside the medbay and walking quickly through the hangar whenever he entered or exited it was certainly an improvement over the twice-nightly self-scans and complete avoidance of the hangar from a year ago and an undeniable improvement of the panic attacks he had the first week following the interrogation and sentencing.

Ratchet had no idea until the first time it happened just how much what Hound and Wheeljack did to his spark had actually almost _helped_ him cope with his condition. With his spark actively policing his actions, words, reactions, and even, sometimes, his movements and decisions, Ratchet had been able to keep himself calm aside from internal desperation to be able to communicate. Without the pod inside him, however, and without his spark's influence keeping him silenced, the first time he stepped into the hangar had been...well. The amount of tranquilizers and sedatives now on his medical record for that orn alone spoke volumes.

He repeatedly refused therapy, insisting he could recover on his own. Neither First Aid nor Hoist were at all _happy_ about it, but they respected his wishes for a while, though Ratchet knew his private quarters had been bugged at some point so they could keep tabs on him. He wanted to be offended by their audacity, but in the long run, he could only feel touched by their concern. Had the circumstances been switched, he could not deny that he likely would have done the same, especially if the victim had been First Aid.

Still, he staunchly refused outside assistance and worked toward improving his state of mind without aid - medical aid, anyway. Emotional support was something for which he did not lack, especially after the announcement.

When Hound and Wheeljack's true nature was announced, Ratchet had not wanted his role in their exposure to be revealed. Unfortunately, everyone had already learned about his worrisome collapse after the battle, and gossip had already fully circulated regarding the fluids he had leaked from the ruptured pod when he was moved inside. As a result, no matter Ratchet's preference, the fact that he had been attacked became public knowledge. Then, of course, came the pity, the questions, the anger, the incessant repetitions of "Are you okay?" and "How are you holding up?", and, possibly worst of all, the careful maneuvering around him as if he would fly into a panic at any sudden movement. At first, despite his better judgment, Ratchet had appreciated it. It served as a reminder that he did not need to endure his recovery alone and proved the inherent good which resided in all Autobots, even the most sour.

However, the appreciation had been short-lived. After the first month, it began to grow annoying; after the second, it was frustrating. By the fourth, combined with Hoist and First Aid's repeated attempts to coax him into therapy, Ratchet finally, to ensure he caught the attention of as many of the culprits as possible, bellowed in the middle of a marathon of _As the Kitchen Sinks_ that if one more mech treated him with sparklet gloves, asked him if he was "okay", or sent him notes saying he was "there if he needed him", Ratchet was going to rip the vidscreen off the rec room wall and feed it to him. It earned him dozens of shocked stares and gaping expressions, but Ratchet remembered also seeing a few mechs break into beaming grins. The grinning had puzzled him for all of one klik before he realized that, for the first time in four months, the first time since the secrecy of his ordeal had been broken in the interrogation, he almost - _almost_ felt like himself again. He had actually worried for a long time if he would ever feel normal after what he had experienced, but Ratchet now had hope, as did the others - if he could threaten bodily harm to the ignorant masses just like old times, then he _could_ recover.

The atmosphere improved exponentially afterward, and the next eight months saw a steady decrease in coddling and patronizing until his relations with his fellow Autobots were just shy of normal once more, and _that_ Ratchet realized, probably helped more than anything else. The coddling and concern had made him feel helpless and broken and had served to only remind him every orn of what he had endured. Now that they had finally stopped, he felt as if he was improving almost every orn. He still had to contend with his own nervousness outside the medbay and inside the hangar in addition to the bad defrags and memory block dumps. Some were much worse than others, but the good nights finally began to outnumber the bad three months ago, and he could finally rub First Aid and Hoist's masks into the fact that he had managed just fine without counseling. He told them he just needed time.

Ratchet knew he was fortunate. He had the time to heal as well as the concern and support of nearly every Autobot on the _Ark_. In contrast, all Wheeljack and Hound had was time. With the announcement, they lost nearly every ally and friend they had fostered throughout their long vorns of fighting for the Autobot Cause. Ratchet remembered well the expressions and noises of horror, outrage, and terror which had passed through the assembly. Some reacted better than others, but a few had fled to the back of the group to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the pair of cuculid mechs at the front without actually leaving the room. It was unfortunate, but the silent, subdued way Wheeljack and Hound carried themselves and the way they had not met the optics or visors of any of their former friends spoke to how much they had expected such an overall reaction. Ratchet would not have been surprised if Optimus' speech regarding equality and understanding had gone largely ignored by the majority.

The fact that the announcement resulted in Tiny Accident Number Five had _not_ helped their relations with Blaster and Tracks. Ratchet had countered later during one of Blaster's check-ups that it was bound to happen eventually. It was just unfortunate that Hound and Wheeljack's reveal just happened to be the catalyst.

Thankfully, the pair had not lost _all_ of their allies. While they were now ostracized by the majority, the officers, medics, and scientists worked diligently to help them feel as if they still belonged, and it certainly helped that the _Ark_ housed several mechs who were too young to have heard and been heavily influenced by the old horror stories. In contrast to the way Tracks fled whenever he found himself in the same room as one of the two cuculids, First Aid and Skydive had been fascinated, and Ratchet knew from reading the surveillance reports that they often found Wheeljack or Hound when their off-duty time coincided to simply talk with them and ask questions. Blaster's cassettes, too, despite the spark splitter's wishes, had been unwaveringly curious, especially Rewind, and they often made excuses to loiter in the medbay or keep Hound company when he was tasked with repairs or monitor duty. Ratchet was quite certain Blaster had no idea that a lot of his favorite name suggestions for the incoming new cassette were relayed through Steeljaw from Wheeljack.

Likewise, the Dinobots felt they had absolutely no reason to fear either their co-creator or his "special friend" who the Dinobots had accepted into their fold without hesitation. In fact, the other Autobots' rejection of Wheeljack and Hound had served only to sour their relations with the Dinobots all over again. Any attempts to physically lash out in fear toward the pair had resulted in the Dinobots appointing themselves as Wheeljack and Hound's bodyguards. If nothing else, it _very_ quickly put a stop to mechs conveniently stretching their legs out in Hound's way when he walked and the covert attempts to throw things across crowded rooms at Wheeljack.

Ratchet could not recall another attempt at petty bullying since the orn Wheeljack walked into the laboratory and been hit by a glue bomb which literally had his name on it. Grimlock had tracked down the culprit's scent within five kliks, and while Ratchet still had no idea exactly _what_ Grimlock said to Powerglide once he found him, there was no denying that the physical attacks had finally stopped. Hound and Wheeljack regarded their unofficial bodyguards with a little trepidation, mostly for fear of the Dinobots getting themselves in trouble with their overzealous protection. Still, even a year later, as long as their schedules permitted, neither cuculid went anywhere without a Dinobot shadow whether he liked it or not.

Thankfully, relations overall were slowly improving - much more slowly than Ratchet's own recovery, but they were improving nonetheless. The other Autobots were still leery of being around Hound and Wheeljack any longer than necessary for duties, and still only two mechs would accept scouting duty alongside Hound: Mirage, who had proven himself a better mech than even Ratchet thought by returning the kindness and trust Hound showed him a long time ago, and the ever-loyal Trailbreaker.

The emotional breakdown Hound had when the two approached him after the announcement and stood beside him even as the rest fled had been spark-wrenching. They were the two most important mechs in his life after his mate, and Ratchet was happy for him that they still readily accepted him, but at the same time, he was ashamed of himself for his inability to do the same. He had steadfastly refused to look at Wheeljack at the time not because of rejection, though he feared that was what the engineer thought, but because he could not risk seeing the smaller mech's expressive optics broadcast his wistfulness and sadness. Ratchet knew now that it had been a mistake - no matter how he felt at the time of the announcement, he should have known that it would have been seen by the other Autobots as approval of rejecting the pair. After all, if even Ratchet could not forgive his best and closest friend, why should they? It was an oversight he had eventually corrected, though he still berated himself for not rectifying it sooner.

The Protectobots' and Aerialbots' staunch refusal to hate and fear the pair when they had never before been given reason to certainly helped, but the biggest step in the right direction had been when Ratchet himself told Windcharger, when innocently asked how he could stand to be around them even just for regular duties after "what he went through", that they were still fellow Autobots. They were just different.

"Different in a really scary way, though," Windcharger had countered.

"It's only scary because we don't understand it," Ratchet responded. "And we'll only understand it if we stop treating them like they're worse than the worst Decepticons and start trying to look at things from their perspective."

"But what if it happens again?"

"We're working to ensure it won't, and _they_ 're also working toward that. Yes, I'm still jumpy. I'm jumpy from _memories_ , _not_ from an actual fear of being attacked again. They didn't attack me intentionally - I understand and accept that now. And if _I_ can accept it, why can't everyone else?"

It had not helped overnight, of course, but Ratchet did notice the _Ark_ -wide animosity had finally started to wane after that little conversation. Clearly, Bluestreak was not the only one who liked to chatter. After some time, the difference was noticeable, and by the time a year had passed, the other Autobots had at least ceased clearing the room when one or both of them entered as well as ceased the hateful glares and engine growls. The engine growls could not hold a penlight to a Dinobot bodyguard's, anyway. Still no one but Trailbreaker and Mirage would scout solo with Hound, and no one really liked to go to the medbay in the odd times when Wheeljack was the only one on duty, but Ratchet noticed a few more Autobots greeting them in passing or helping them carry things through the halls versus ignoring them outright. It was slow, but improvement was still improvement.

In addition to healing, time also had the capacity to teach. The hardest part of Ratchet's recovery, the part which still gave him shivers even if he was reacting much better than before, had been the research. True to their agreement, Hound and Wheeljack willingly allowed Perceptor, Hoist, First Aid, and, later, Skyfire to conduct the research which would, hopefully, finally eradicate the mystery surrounding their kind. Ratchet did not participate in the research personally, but he did receive regular, weekly reports from Perceptor which detailed what they had learned. He had not been able to read past the first two pages of the original report before panicking, his imagination in overdrive as he unwillingly extrapolated what must have happened to him that night in the hangar from the descriptions and theories contained within. That was before he even got to the _pictures_. So, Ratchet had let them pile up on his desk and read a few sentences at a time. As with everything else, it eventually became easier. After a year, he could _almost_ make it through an entire report before he had to stop and let his fuel tank settle. He was still far from ready to actually participate, but he had hope that he would be able to in another year. In the meantime, despite the way the imagery made him shiver or disturbed his rest, he could not help also being morbidly fascinated, especially once he got to a point where he could actually _look_ at the pictures instead of rushing past them.

According to the first report, Wheeljack had insisted they study Hound first, not only because Hound needed internal repairs from his near-death experience in Devastator's fist but also because, in the engineer's own words, Wheeljack's anatomy was "just a lot more complicated". The descriptions and pictures accompanying the study on Hound's anatomy had made Ratchet wonder how Wheeljack's could possibly have been more complicated. The mechanical arm-like ovipositor Hound somehow kept tucked away inside him, which had apparently been broken in half by Devastator, was alien enough in appearance and possible use that it had taken two weeks of tests and documentation to reach an understanding on how it worked, and that was on top of the two weeks it took to repair it. Thankfully, Wheeljack was able to offer some insight for the repairs - apparently, Hoist had been about to reattach it upside-down before Wheeljack interfered.

It took Ratchet the better part of two months to make it through all of the reports regarding Hound and what they had learned from him, but he finally managed. Unfortunately, with even the cuculid pair's lack of understanding of how their own anatomy worked, Perceptor's best conclusions could only be described as theories and hypotheses based on the information at his disposal, though it was still much better than being completely in the dark. At least it explained the puncture Ratchet found in his abdominal plating, though the medic had to force himself not to imagine what it must have felt like when it happened.

Hound's ovipositor was basically a giant needle mounted on an almost free-moving arm which was threaded with tubing for energon and specialized nanites housed in a reservoir hidden very well behind his reserve fuel tank. It was jointed in several places so it could maneuver enough to find the proper angle for penetration. Then, according to Skyfire's theory, it reared back, gathered momentum, and struck, embedding the needle tip into the victim. Exactly what happened from there had been uncertain, and Ratchet was quite sure he did not want to know the details - they assumed it was designed to take the nanite solution and energon Hound's body manufactured and inject it into the pod, but the origin of the pod itself and how it was placed inside the host mech was still a mystery.

Until it was Wheeljack's turn.

"Complicated" had been about the right phrase to describe Wheeljack. Hound's bizarre, alien anatomy had been downright simple compared to when the scientists and medics began examining the engineer. Ratchet still had trouble looking at Wheeljack and believing that the white mech he had known nearly all his life was made up of a complex arrangement of metalmesh, cables, and plating of various thicknesses. How Wheeljack's torso managed to hold itself together, much less assemble itself in a way which flawlessly resembled a normal mech, was one of the biggest mysteries about the two cuculids, a mystery Perceptor was determined to solve come the Pit or Unicron himself. The engineer in question was no help - when initially asked how it worked, he just shrugged helplessly.

Ratchet could offer no theories either. The first time he progressed past the second page of the initial report on Wheeljack and saw the first picture of the smaller mech's torso spread open like some alien offspring of a bear trap, the Dweller of the Depths, a facehugger, and Cthulhu, Ratchet had screamed, thrown the data pad clear across his room, and hidden under his desk. It took him much longer to be able to read the reports on Wheeljack without any ill effects than it had those regarding Hound. Truthfully, the medic could not be certain exactly _what_ about it disturbed him so deeply, but he finally just called it a combination of shock, desperate attempts not to imagine exactly _how_ Wheeljack had used his bizarre anatomy on him in the hangar, and the fact that Ratchet had known this mech since his second vorn online and just _what in Primus' name was that_?!

At least it finally explained the claw marks.

At first, Ratchet simply skimmed through the text and skipped over the pictures, and it was not until three months had passed since the first Wheeljack Report that he realized he had gone from working somewhat well alongside the smaller mech to outright avoiding him as much as physically possible. Simply _looking_ at the engineer caused Ratchet's mind to rebel for a long time because now that he knew what was hiding under Wheeljack's hood, he could not unsee it. If anyone else noticed his deliberate avoidance, they did not comment, so it was only when Ratchet himself finally realized what he was doing that he began to rectify his behavior. He forced himself to thoroughly re-read the information on Wheeljack from the beginning and forced himself to actually look at and process the images as best he could until he finally lost the urge to throw the data pad away or purge his fuel tank into the nearest waste receptacle.

Just as he, Perceptor, and Optimus all theorized in the beginning, the horror and distress over how very different the two mechs were from the rest of them slowly began to fade as Ratchet made himself read and try to understand them. When he made himself read the reports and associate what he read with what he saw, it actually began to make sense, and when it started to make _sense_ , it became less frightening and disturbing. Not _much_ less as Ratchet still had to try very hard not to imagine what he read happening to him all over again, but the more he understood, the less _vile_ it all seemed.

Perceptor and Skyfire had worked out that the cuculid subtype basically came in two further subtypes: Wheeljack's, which excreted the silicone sheathing which formed the pod, and Hound's, which injected the nanite solution necessary to create the podling inside. Wheeljack's own ovipositor was much less mechanical in appearance than Hound's, more of a flexible, free-moving tube which was capable of expanding or contracting in order to slip between the host mech's plating without damaging him. His horrifying bear trap of a torso was, in theory, meant to hold the host mech still lest he struggle and tear the cuculid mech's ovipositor. It all sounded sinister, and it probably did not look or feel much better, but there was literally no other way they could propagate their subtype. As shown in one of the experiments Perceptor documented, a pod collapsed under its own weight if it was extruded outside a host mech - it _needed_ to be able to form its attachment filaments not only to fuel itself and the mechlet it created inside but also simply to keep itself from collapsing from gravity alone. In addition, two mechs of Hound's type or two mechs of Wheeljack's had no way of performing the act - the pair literally _needed_ to be composed of one of each or they were completely incompatible.

As Ratchet slowly made his way through the reports and learned along with his fellow Autobots, he had found himself noticeably less disturbed and much more curious, and in the seventh month of his recovery, he finally sent the first observation of his own back with one of the reports: if the two subtypes had no way of breeding together, and if they were so rare as to possibly be extinct outside of the two Autobot cuculids now living on Earth, the chances of two mechs meeting and being of compatible types were microscopic - _nano_ scopic. They should have died off on their own long before being eradicated by the standard Cybertronians. That curiosity above everything else, Ratchet thought, had been one of the catalysts which helped him to move into the next stage of his recovery.

He began taking part in the studies even though it was only through notes, questions, and messages sent either over the medical contingent's frequency or by returning data pad reports. He still was not quite willing to actually be in the same room and witness one or both mechs opening up with his own optics, but Ratchet felt he was still making progress. He had moved, for the most part, beyond disgust, distress, and horror to curiosity and the desire to _know_ and _understand_. He asked the research team questions they had either not yet considered or had pushed back in favor of other curiosities, and they provided him with as much insight as they could through their reports.

Ratchet's question regarding the odds of two compatible mechs ever finding one another had rather quickly been answered, though only on the most basic level. Simply put, Hound and Wheeljack had met at a stage in their mechlet development when they did not yet have their distinctive anatomy - the nanites still building their bodies had added the necessary components to their bodies only after they met a fellow cuculid. Ratchet supposed it made sense, but only on the simplest level. The astronomical chance of them meeting at _all_ , especially at that perfectly timed stage of development, was still something he found intriguing, and he and the others also found themselves wondering what forms their adult bodies may have taken had they never met. Would they have never formed any sort of cuculidian anatomy and become simply normal mechs? Would their sparks have chosen one or the other of the two types and left them to hope they would find a mate some vorn? Would they have developed _both_ sets? Unfortunately, those were questions which could not be definitively answered, but the wonder and intrigue helped to push aside the fear, and even if his questions went forever unanswered, Ratchet was at least glad for that. He had time to ponder answers for the unanswerable.

In all, the last year had been very productive and had progressed much more smoothly than Ratchet had dared to hope in the beginning. There had been difficult moments, to be sure, but he had expected it. Truly, it had been difficult for all of them, and not just for the three mechs the most directly involved in the incident. Everyone in the _Ark_ made adjustments, some more than most, though acceptance was still a long time coming. No one was naive enough to believe Hound and Wheeljack would ever be truly accepted by everyone, least of all Hound and Wheeljack themselves, and Ratchet, too, was not naive enough to believe that he would ever be able to forget what happened to him. Still, it gave the medic hope that it had only been a year and relations, psyches, and tensions had improved greatly - a little time, but a lot of progress and a lot of healing.

Ratchet was pulled from his reminiscing as he paused at the entrance to the housing wing. For three nights now, he had come to this section of the _Ark_ intending to enter only to turn around and leave once more. As he stared down the corridor, the lighting dim due to being on the night cycle setting, he recalled everything which had crossed his mind in the last few breems since his customary pause outside the medbay. A little time, but a lot of progress. He was proud of the progress he had made to this point - it was about time he quit being a coward and showed it. With an inward ventilation, Ratchet lifted one foot and made his way down the corridor to the second door on the left.

A large, yellow head lifted and peered down at Ratchet with bright blue optics as he approached only to dim its optics once more, recognizing there was no threat here. It was a good thing the hallways of the housing wing were wide to accommodate groups of multiple mechs traversing it at one time, or Sludge would never have been allowed to camp outside the door. Then again, Ratchet would have liked to see someone _try_ to move the largest - the most gentle, to be sure, but certainly the _largest_ \- of the Dinobots when Sludge did not wish to be moved. Possibly the only one who could manage it would have been Grimlock, and that was only because he was armed with sharp fangs with which to sink into Sludge's hindquarters.

Ratchet favored the Dinobot bodyguard with a small smile and lifted one red hand to gently rub the nose of Sludge's dinosaur form as he reached forward with the other to chime his presence. He would never forget the shock of learning the truth behind the large mechs. Before Wheeljack's confession, no one had ever understood it - five robotic dinosaurs had first been built as a curiosity and then improved to function as little more than drones when the Autobots simply needed a little more firepower. Then, one orn, Sludge looked down at Ratchet, and the medic had been stunned silent - he saw coherence in those optics. He saw curiosity and wonder. He saw the glimmer of _sentience_. When Ratchet had picked his jaw up off the floor, he went to each of the other Dinobots and saw in their optics and visors the same thing, and opening their chests had proven him correct. Inside the crystal meant only to function as a conductor for the fusion generators which powered their drone bodies, a spark burned brightly - a true Cybertronian spark.

Even knowing now how it happened, it still made no sense; Wheeljack fully admitted that. It should not have been possible, but there they were. Their miraculous evolution from drone to fully sentient mech had been divisive among the Autobots, and they were accepted much more readily by some than others. Perhaps that was one reason why they had so easily accepted Hound and grown aggressively protective of the two cuculids - just as Hound once told Mirage, the Dinobots also knew what it was like to feel unwanted and like freaks for simply being different.

< _My hands're full - it ain't locked,_ > came the answer to his chime over the intercom. Ratchet gave Sludge's nose another stroke who nudged his snout into the touch before he turned fully to the door, inhaled another cleansing ventilation, and let himself inside.

"How do you keep doin' this to yourself?" Wheeljack was grumbling as he tried to...well, Ratchet was not exactly sure _what_ he was doing to Hound at first, and he was beginning to think he had chosen the completely _wrong_ klik to see them.

"It's called water and wind erosion," Hound pouted where he was lying on the floor with his legs in Wheeljack's lap who was sitting on the edge of the berth, his hands buried in the plating of Hound's legs. "At least it's just rocks this time. Isn't that easier than vines? And why do I have to be on the floor?"

"Not really. At least I could burn out vines as a last resort. And you're on the floor 'cause I don't want grit in my berth." Hound gave a piteous whine which went more or less ignored. "What did you do this time - go down aft first?"

"...something like that. Look on the bright side: now the whole path's gone, so I won't be able to do it again."

"Oh, joy."

Ratchet brightened one optic at their conversation and was unable to resist the urge to ask, "Why don't you just go use the high-powered sprayer in the medbay wash rack?"

Both mechs froze and stared at him in utter disbelief. Beyond his duties in the medbay alongside Wheeljack, Ratchet had avoided being alone in the same room as either of them for an entire year, and he had especially avoided being alone with both of them at once. In fact, beyond the few times Hound needed medical attention while Ratchet was on duty, the chief medic had barely been around the green scout since the announcement. They could find no words at first to explain or ask about his presence - they simply stared for a nanoklik, then, as one, their gaze shot to the security camera in the corner. Both knew well that they were not to be around the chief medic without permission, and even though Ratchet had clearly come to them, they still feared reprisal. The sad part was that Ratchet knew they would not have disputed it if unfair reprisal _did_ come.

"It's alright," he assured them and took two more steps into the room to be certain he was visible to the security feed. He looked up at the camera and nodded to whoever was watching - most likely Red Alert, but possibly Prowl instead. "I came here of my own volition, but take this as my official word - I'm lifting the restraining order. They're now free to approach me without permission should they wish to after I leave tonight." He heard the familiar clang of a tool falling to the floor from numb fingers. "I want to speak with them in private, so could you at least turn off audio until I leave?" The light on the camera blinked twice to acknowledge his request; he knew the video would not be cut - that was part of the pair's parole. Still, without audio, they could at least have a private conversation.

Once he was satisfied his request had been granted, Ratchet turned to face the two other mechs again to find them both standing. The plating of Hound's legs was still shifting back to its normal configuration, and Wheeljack had both hands wrapped tightly around a cleaning pick. Both mechs' stances screamed submission and nervousness; they were hunched down a little, their shoulders tense, as if they could physically make themselves smaller even though they were both already small mechs compared to Ratchet. As he looked at them, everything Ratchet had planned to say evaporated - he could remember none of the words he had rehearsed in his head, could not put what he wanted to say into a coherent thought. As he struggled to find them again, his silence only made the pair in front of him cringe back further and further in fear and dread and confusion which only frustrated the medic more.

Finally, he could think of only one thing to say which might help ease the tension in the room - one thing which might show the frightened pair that he meant no harm.

Ratchet gave them both a weak smile and simply said, "Hi."

It was as if he had thrown a switch. Almost instantly, tension bled from the frightened mechs - not all of it, but it was enough that they had finally been convinced he was not here to attack, yell at, or otherwise cause them trouble as a form of belated retribution for what they did to him. Hound returned Ratchet's smile with a timid one of his own, and Wheeljack's vocal indicators glimmered softly in a way Ratchet recognized from vorns of experience to be the mouthless mech's version of a smile.

"Hi," Wheeljack finally replied. "Um...do - do you want to sit? There's another chair I can get—" He looked around for the extra chair as if he had abruptly forgotten the layout and contents of his own quarters. He probably had.

"Sure," Ratchet answered and started to look for the chair in question as well, but Hound had beat them both to it. As soon as Wheeljack first asked, the green scout had rushed to grab the chair and pushed it over to Ratchet to let the medic choose where he wanted to sit - and how closely he wished to sit to them. As the pair sat down once more on the edge of the berth, Ratchet placed the chair directly in front of them just under arm's length away, far enough away to both help himself feel like he was at a safe distance as well as to alleviate any concern of whoever was watching, yet close enough to show the mated pair that he _was_ comfortable in their presence. Perhaps not yet fully relaxed, but comfortable.

Once they were all settled into their seating arrangements, Ratchet said again, "Hi. Been a while."

"Yeah," Wheeljack laughed weakly. "Yeah, it has. How...How have you been?"

They were all slow to open up, but after a few awkward starts, Ratchet and Wheeljack fell into a comfortable conversation with the ease of experience and the familiarity of a long friendship which had never truly broken, just strained for a while. They discussed the less tense events of the last year, the other Autobots' improved treatment of the pair, the positive and negative aspects of Dinobot bodyguards, and other things they had been unable to talk about with their enforced separation. For the most part, Hound simply listened at first, citing that he did not wish to interfere, but Ratchet had been able to get the green mech to open up after a few more kliks. Just as always, the green mech was an easy conversationalist once he got started, and within the third breem, all three mechs were conversing as easily and comfortably as if nothing had ever happened between them.

Ratchet learned Hound began taking the Dinobots with him for scouting duty when neither Trailbreaker nor Mirage were available to partner with, and he used scouting duty to get to know the Dinobots better by turning the normally mundane task into "nature walks". The Dinobots were absolutely delighted by it, and its results were threefold: they scouted as they were supposed to, Hound and the accompanying Dinobot both received positive attention they were greatly lacking nowadays, and the large mechs learned more about the planet on which they were Sparked.

"He's tryin' to teach 'em how to talk to rabbits," Wheeljack scoffed. "After I made him promise he wouldn't teach 'em anythin' weird."

"I _told_ you I promised nothing," Hound sniffed haughtily. "Rabbitese is an art which should be shared."

"What does a rabbit even _sound_ like? I swear you make this slag up."

"I do not!"

Ratchet simply fell silent and watched them banter for a few kliks, smiling softly as Hound actually demonstrated how to "speak" to a rabbit much to Wheeljack's consternation. As he witnessed the ease with which they talked to one another, the affectionate way they looked at each other, and the lovingly snarky tones they used in their banter, he wondered how they ever convinced the entire Autobot army that they were not involved. Ratchet had several times in the past tried to proposition the engineer, to take their relationship to the next stage, but Wheeljack had always refused, citing that he did not want to damage what they had if it did not work out between them on the romantic level. Likewise, Ratchet knew from the rumor mill several vorns ago that the same held true for Hound - the mech made friends with everyone yet had never taken anything beyond friendship, not even with Trailbreaker. They definitely did not seem like a good match from the outside - a genius scientist and a naturalist with only a basic education? What could they possibly have had in common which could keep them together through everything they had endured? However, their devotion to each other had been unwavering, and looking at them now, seeing the way they spoke to and looked at and touched one another, Ratchet wondered how he or any other Autobot could have possibly missed something so _obvious_.

Their contrasting personalities and interests actually seemed to compliment one another. Perhaps it was simply because of how they had developed together in the beginning, but Ratchet could tell it was not simply the fact that they were both of a Cybertronian subtype which needed one another.

Watching them helped Ratchet make his decision. For three orns, he had struggled with himself, terrified he was about to make a terrible mistake. He worried his decision would undo all of his year of recovery even though it would not happen for a long while still, and his main worry had been that the two had little to nothing between them beyond what they were physically. Watching them now, though, he could see that particular worry had no basis.

"I came here for a reason," the medic finally said when the pair had paused in their bickering of whether or not squirrels could communicate with chipmunks and how full of smelt Hound was for believing they could. "I wanted to ask you two something."

That got their undivided attention, the argument - if it could be called that - immediately forgotten. "What is it?" Wheeljack asked. "Y'know you can ask me anythin'." And Primus did it feel wonderful to _believe_ that now, and Ratchet could tell the engineer felt the same way.

"Is..." Ratchet paused and looked down at the floor briefly to check himself for signs of a panic attack. The contents of his fuel tank seemed settled enough, and his spark was not pulsing any more rapidly than it normally would from nervousness. His hands were not trembling. It felt safe enough to continue. He just needed to take his time and not rush it. "Is there any chance..." He lifted his gaze to look at the both of them once more. "...that the two of you might want to...make a podling in the future?"

Wheeljack and Hound exchanged a baffled glance, their confusion evident. That was likely the last thing they expected to be asked, if they expected it at all. After a brief klik, Hound finally looked back to Ratchet to answer uncertainly, "I...guess? Maybe? We....we were going to take the podling with us had it survived." He glanced to his mate again then back to Ratchet, abruptly nervous and uncertain if he should continue. "...we'd kinda started looking forward to it."

"But we can't," Wheeljack was quick to add. "'Cep said you've been readin' the documentation. You know it ain't possible, so whether we wanted to or not—"

"Not possible without a third," Ratchet finished for him. "Yes, I know. That's...the main reason I came here tonight." The medic lifted one hand to nervously run it down the back of his helm, and he pulled in another cleansing ventilation before he forced himself to finish lest he completely lose his nerve. "Not anytime soon, of course - probably not for a _long_ time, but...if you two do decide you want make one in the future, I'd...I'd be willing to host for you."

The stunned silence which followed his words was nearly choking, and when Ratchet finally dared to look at them again, their expressions were unreadable beyond complete disbelief. He could see in their optics that they were trying to determine if he had actually said what he did. "Yes? No?" Ratchet finally asked in an attempt to break the awkward silence.

When Wheeljack finally found his voice again, it was thin with shock. "Ratch' - are you _sure_?" the engineer finally managed to ask. "It...I don't mean anythin' by this, but...it's taken you a year just to get to this point where you can actually _talk_ to us again. I - _we_ \- wouldn't want to undo everythin'—"

"I know, 'Jack," Ratchet cut him off. "I know better than anybody else how hard this has been for me, but I've dealt with it. I've gotten better. I know I still have a way to go before I'm completely—" Whole. Undamaged. _Normal_. "...recovered. But...I think what made it so difficult and has made it stick with me for so long was the situation and the fact that I had no idea what was going on. I know now. I know what to expect - I have a vague idea of how it _works_ now. And, above all else, I know you two didn't have any malicious intent. I didn't then, and _that_ is the main thing that made it difficult for me to cope.

"But, I'm better now. I'll be even better tomorrow and better still in the future. Coming here tonight was the first step. I'd already made up my mind three orns ago to approach you two about this. If, in the future, you two want to make and raise a podling of your own, I'd...be willing to be your host."

The two cuculid mechs fell quiet again, simply watching him for a long moment to ensure for themselves that what they heard was true and, Ratchet thought, to assure themselves that he was in his right mind. After a klik, he watched as Hound's hand slid to his side to find and thread black fingers through Wheeljack's grey. They looked to one another again, and Hound smiled for the both of them before they finally looked back to Ratchet.

"You can change your mind any time, and we'll understand," Hound insisted, his voice rough, and Wheeljack nodded his agreement without hesitation.

Ratchet gave a weak, soft laugh. "Yeah, well - if you asked me tomorrow, I would. I mean it about the _future_."

Wheeljack nodded again. "Of course. The middle of a war's no place to raise a podlin', anyway," he admitted. "Not one made on purpose. But...thanks, Ratch'. I don't think you fully realize what that means to us."

"I think maybe I do," Ratchet simply replied. By being the one to approach them, by showing that he was willing to work hard enough to recover in order to do this for them, he set a precedent for acceptance. He showed them that full acceptance, something neither mech ever dared to dream of their entire lives, _was_ possible, especially since they could further study the propagation cycle of cuculid mechs once they had a willing host. A host who was not distressed and terrified of his condition would be able to provide valuable insight into the carrying process and development which, in turn, would provide a deeper understanding into their kind and make them less frightening. It was a long, arduous road they were all traveling, but they had time. If time was what it took to finally right all the terrible wrongs of the past, to finally heal the old wounds, then Ratchet welcomed it.

Still, that was a matter for the future. Ratchet was currently in the present and found that tackling one problem at a time worked best for him right now, and at the moment, there was one particularly ridiculous problem sitting right across from him.

"We can discuss it later if you like," he remarked and moved to stand. "Right now, though, let's hit that high-powered sprayer in the wash racks and de-rock Hound." The pair laughed and stood as well, but before Ratchet could turn away from them, he noticed Wheeljack twitch, as if he was about to step toward the medic but uncertain he was welcome. After many vorns of friendship with the engineer - strained but not broken - Ratchet knew exactly what he wanted and held out an arm to accept him.

< _Ratch'?_ > immediately sounded in the medic's communicator. Ah, so Jazz was the one on watch-duty tonight.

< _I'm fine, Jazz,_ > Ratchet assured him as he looped an arm around and held his shivering best friend. < _It's just a hug._ > And both to show Jazz that the situation was under his control as well as to show the mated pair that he was serious in his progress in accepting them, Ratchet held out his other arm for the third mech in the room. Hound stared at him in surprise but only cast one nervous glance to the camera before he stepped closer at the medic's beckoning gesture. As he held the two smaller mechs for a brief klik and then started out to the communal wash rack with them, Ratchet thought he felt another weight lift from his spark. He was not fully healed yet and knew he would not be for a long while, but he was still making steady progress. He had just taken a massive step in the right direction, and not just for himself. They could all make this work.

In time.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanoklik - ~1 second  
> Klik - ~1 minute  
> Breem - 8 minutes  
> Cycle - 2 hours  
> Orn - 1 day

Ratchet often wondered at the odd way the universe worked. How much of each orn was dictated by the choices they made, and how much was determined by sheer, blind luck? Did Primus truly have a divine plan for his descendants which carried them to their ultimate destination, or was he just as helpless to the push and pull of the universe as they? If he did have a plan, how much of it was based on mercy for one mech and disdain for another? Or was he completely impartial with no true investment in any one mech? Were the events which guided a mech's path through life laid out carefully or plucked at random from a wide range of ideas? No matter what any one mech chose to believe otherwise, Ratchet preferred his own explanation:

Primus had one Pit of a sense of humor.

If he had stopped every Autobot he ever knew and asked them, from the depths of their sparks, how they truly thought the war would end, Ratchet was positive none of them would have answered, "By Megatron being impaled by a helicopter blade."

He remembered the battle well - he had been there. He saw with his own optics as Megatron's frustration at the military base reached an apex. The Decepticons had been after the base's stock of jet fuel - according to Mirage's last reports, the Constructicons had perfected a new form of energon conversion which managed to increase the amount of energon produced by jet and rocket fuel almost fivefold, so the Autobots had expected the attack. Unfortunately, by the time the Autobots finally arrived and began to drive back their enemies, the Decepticons had already managed to escape with a worrying amount of the fuel. However, despite both his vice commanders' insistence that they take their earnings and flee to prevent more casualties, Megatron, for reasons still unknown, refused to retreat despite having enough fuel to keep the Decepticons off rations for several weeks. He had started firing upon the military facilities themselves instead of the Autobots in an attempt to get his enemies to divert their attention to avoiding human casualties.

Even now, Ratchet had a hard time believing what he saw had actually happened. It was such a downright hapless, unlucky, and _embarrassing_ way to go, even for a tyrant of Megatron's caliber, that it simply could not have happened in reality. But it happened - the last ten years were proof.

As Megatron dragged the battle past its logical and comfortable ending point, more than Starscream and Soundwave had begun to protest. A few Decepticons decided to cut their losses and face their mad leader's wrath later on and fled without the order to do so. It was when Megatron spotted the next retreating group that it happened. Blinded by rage and whatever madness had taken hold that battle, Megatron fired upon the fleeing Combaticons and shot Vortex out of the sky. The shot hit the Combaticon's tail rotors and sent him into an uncontrolled downward spin, and when he hit the ground on his side, his primary rotors sheared off to fly in every conceivable direction.

Unfortunately for Megatron, one just happened to sail right into his chest.

Primus definitely had a sense of humor - a rather sadistic one, at that. The Decepticon tyrant was heavily armored enough that he could have shrugged it off almost any other time. However, between the overextended battle having worn down his armor, the speed with which the severed rotor flew at him, and the angle of penetration, the shrapnel cleaved through him as if he had been made of paper instead. Even then, he would have been able to recover had it impaled him _any_ where else, but no, by Primus' hand guiding it - and that had to be it because the pile of freakish coincidences was just too bizarre otherwise - the rotor penetrated the large mech's spark chamber. It not only penetrated the chamber, which _may_ have been survivable had he received immediate repairs, it cleaved his _spark itself_.

It was a humiliating, baffling, and, in the long run, karmic way to go. Ratchet remembered nearly the entire battlefield went silent as everyone - Autobot, Decepticon, and human alike - stared in utter, confounded disbelief as the Decepticon leader, the scourge of Cybertron, the Emperor of Destruction...dropped like a heap of spare parts. The fact that Ratchet ended up using his body for exactly that purpose only added to the humiliation.

Of course, the war had not ended overnight - just because Megatron was dead did not mean the Decepticon Cause had died with him. However, no matter his oppressive rule or his increasingly erratic behavior over the last few vorns of the war, Megatron had been a true leader once. Mechs looked up to him and followed him with the hope that he would guide them to a better Cybertron as he originally promised when the war first began long ago. Without him and his promises of a new age and his conviction with making it happen, the average Decepticon felt lost and directionless. Ratchet almost felt sorry for Starscream. The seeker had tried desperately to keep the army unified and focused, but the Decepticons very quickly divided into sub-factions - those willing to give Starscream a chance, those who felt Shockwave was more in line with Megatron's original plan for the army, and those who deserted the Cause entirely and hid rather than follow either of them.

Ratchet supposed no Autobot would ever know exactly what happened after the Decepticons divided. He just knew that within three months of Megatron's death, Mirage's next scouting infiltration of the _Victory_ found it picked clean, abandoned, and completely flooded. Shortly after that, a small, ragged, and starving group of Decepticons lead by Starscream turned up at the _Ark_ to surrender. According to Starscream, the group which had transferred its loyalty to Shockwave ransacked the _Victory_ and left nothing for Starscream and his handful of loyalists to use to manufacture energon even from resources they did not need to steal. His group was small, consisting of himself, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Soundwave, and the remaining three Combaticons, all in various stages of injury and starvation. Their energy was low enough that the group had actually _walked_ to the _Ark_ from where they had been hiding in Idaho.

They had no choice: either they surrendered to the Autobots, surrendered to Shockwave who would likely execute them all, or died of starvation. At least the first option _might_ not end in death, and they had already lost too much.

Apparently, no one but his own cassettes wished to follow the ex-communications officer, leaving him with very few allies. Even then, Soundwave could have managed if a new leader earned his loyalty. However, his loyalty and duties to Megatron as a spymaster of both Autobot and fellow Decepticon meant that the ex-communications officer had earned a lot of enemies, especially on Earth, and when the infighting began, many Decepticons used it as justification for revenge for every wrong they had suffered throughout their service. Unfortunately for Soundwave and his cassettes, they were considered the easiest targets. Under any other circumstance, Soundwave could take care of himself - he was a formidable fighter, especially in defense of the little mechs under his protection, and his tendency to stay in the background and observe made others forget about his capabilities, but with half the _Victory_ blinded with rage and thirst for vengeance, even he did not stand a chance.

Then, the energon stores became depleted by the infighting, and the cannibalism began. None of the refugees in Starscream's group, least of all Soundwave, would go into detail from that point, but their injuries and the yellow and grey pieces of mech Onslaught refused to let go said what their vocalizers would not. Starscream took Soundwave under his wing, they fled for their own safety, and when a quiet and submissive Soundwave entered the _Ark_ minus two cassettes and a third dying in his arms, not even Blaster had the spark to turn him away.

The steady collapse of the Decepticon empire was not limited to just those on Earth. No one, Autobot _or_ Decepticon, had truly realized just how pivotal Megatron's reign was until he was no longer there to keep the Decepticons in line, and everyone with a rank of any significance began trying to push his authority on everyone else. Not even Ultra Magnus' contingent on Cybertron could say exactly how everything ended, just that the next time Springer flew over Polyhex to see if he could determine what was happening around Shockwave's tower, the entire tower had collapsed. No one ever saw the violet Guardian again, and his disappearance and presumed death unofficially marked the end of the war.

The past ten years were rocky, to say the least. Eight months after Megatron's death, two since Shockwave's, the Autobots tentatively declared their win. They were challenged by no one beyond a few groups of Decepticons no larger than a few dozen who refused to believe the war was over. A few groups lead by higher ranking officers with their heads screwed on a little straighter than most fell back to Decepticon outposts off-planet, but the more typical scenario was that a group of Decepticon stragglers appeared out of the shadows every now and then to surrender in the hope that life under Autobot rule would be better than scraping by with what they could find in the ruined cities.

Since the Decepticons lost, they were required to stand trial for their war crimes. Optimus Prime took into consideration the way the entire faction fell apart during its final months, the condition in which it left the former soldiers, and the overall state of Cybertron itself, and in the end, only those Decepticons with the most heinous acts of war to their names were actually incarcerated, exiled off-planet, or executed. The rest were assigned to cities under Autobot parole officers to help with the reconstruction. No one was exempt from the required labor of the rebuilding effort, not even Autobots - the Decepticons just had to put in more time and were not allowed individual housing, nor were they taken off of surveillance, until they worked the number of cycles appropriate to their charges from the original trials. Starscream, as the highest ranking officer remaining from his faction, traded in some of his cycles of physical labor to police the refugees and parolees as well as to negotiate with the Prime just what would happen to the Decepticons when they had fulfilled the conditions of their parole.

Energon was still manufactured on Earth from renewable resources and transported to Cybertron to refuel the reconstruction as well as those who had returned home. Only a few Autobots remained on Earth to monitor the energon production and transport; the rest moved back to Cybertron to help with the rebuild. Even ten years later, some Decepticons still suffered from injuries received during the original collapse, so Ratchet was kept busy in his new clinic in the rebuilt section of Iacon, but he was happy. It was far better to work toward repairing broken bodies and lives which would not turn around and be broken again in battle. Soundwave was a regular patient - Ratchet had managed to save Ravage when the blue spark splitter first surrendered with his dying cassette on Earth, but the amount of time which had passed between their fleeing the _Victory_ and when they finally arrived at the _Ark_ meant she permanently lost a leg due to corroded connections, and Ratchet doubted Soundwave would ever have vision on his left fully restored. Still, despite their handicaps, Soundwave and Ravage, along with Buzzsaw, Frenzy, and Rumble, all worked just as hard as any other Decepticon, sometimes harder to make up for the absence of Laserbeak and Ratbat, and they only took breaks for their regular check-ups and repairs.

It took ten years, an eighth of a vorn, but Ratchet thought it was going well. Old tensions faded, and new friendships formed. Possibly the biggest hurdle was when Hound and Wheeljack's true nature had to be told to the Decepticons in the interest of improved factional relations. _That_ went over about as well as anyone suspected, though at least the majority of the Decepticons knew better than to try anything physical. They kept their disapproval and fear limited to glares and avoidance which was more than could be said for the Earth-based Autobots originally, though it was likely only because the Decepticons did not wish to garner any harsher punishments.

Some did not react with fear and revulsion, however - Starscream was fascinated and took copies of all of the _Ark_ 's research reports on the pair to devour during his little free time, and when he caught one or both of the cuculid pair, they often found themselves flooded with questions. Soundwave, too, accepted the pair far better than anyone expected despite Hound and Ravage's intense rivalry throughout the war - or perhaps because of it. The two had tracked, hunted, and fought one another in close quarters and one-on-one for many vorns, so Soundwave knew if Hound was a danger to his cassette simply for being different, something would have happened a long time ago.

Regardless of anyone's reasons or reactions, Ratchet was very pleased with the way the last ten years went. Whether it was all part of Primus' plan or just a series of odd coincidences, Cybertron was recovering, diplomatic and economic relations with Earth had never been better, and many Decepticons had by now worked through enough of their parole to be allowed to request specific shipments or make short trips to Earth. The only problem with such excellent trans-galactic relations with the organic planet was the fact that energon and Cybertronians were not _all_ the transports tended to bring back.

"And in the walls, I found _Blattella brunelleschius_ ," Hound said from where he sat on the edge of a medical berth, drawing Ratchet from his thoughts. It was quiet in the clinic for a change which enabled Ratchet to get some much-needed cleaning done. It seemed as if a new species of insect or rodent was unwittingly introduced to Cybertron with each transport which returned from Earth. How they survived on a planet with no organic food was anyone's guess, and unfortunately, since it resided in one of the top floors of the central Iacon tower where all of the incoming transports landed, the introduced species usually set up home in Ratchet's clinic. Hound's initial reaction to Ratchet hiring him to "deal with" the infernal pests had been "I'm a game warden, not an exterminator!", but he eventually gave in to Ratchet's demands by way of threats of bodily harm combined with Wheeljack, who worked in the main Autobot laboratory just two floors down, whining incessantly about finding mice corpses in his projects.

"Did you hear that, Ratch'?" Wheeljack asked from his own seat on the other side of the room nearer to where Ratchet was cleaning. "The president of Italy followed Grapple from Earth back to Cybertron."

Hound favored his mate with a completely unimpressed stare as he responded, " _Blattella brunelleschius_ is a new species of cockroach."

"Maybe he'll be voted out next election," Ratchet remarked in the most bland tone of voice he could manage.

Hound grumbled something about "ungrateful scientific know-it-alls" before he gave an exasperated huff through his vents and continued, "I have a plan to get rid of them before the colony gets too out of control, but to do so, I'm going to need to deploy omnivorous fellow Cybertronians into the walls to best assess the infestation and possibly trim down the population depending on their appetite at the time."

Ratchet finally looked up from the table he was polishing and stared at Hound for a brief klik. "You mean you're going to send the Insecticons in there to eat them."

"Anybody can make it sound stupid. You want something more orthodox? Hire a real exterminator."

"...you're sending robo-insects to eat organic insects?" Wheeljack asked, brightening one optic. "There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere..."

"Well, I don't really care as long as it gets rid of them," Ratchet declared. "I've had it with finding them in my energon."

"What, you don't think they'll add some sorta carbon-based nutrients?" Wheeljack teased. "Might be good for the podlin'!"

"You're not funny."

"Nope," Hound agreed. "Just funny-looking." He looked to Ratchet and asked more seriously, ignoring Wheeljack's pouting, "Speaking of which, when's your next appointment down at the lab?"

"Tomorrow," the medic answered. Ratchet's clinic had been established for two years now, and he took great delight in treating an ever-increasing variety of patients and ailments, and best of all, it was _all his_. With reconstruction and refugees and parolees scattered throughout Cybertron, there were not enough medics - Autobot or Decepticon - to go around, leaving each major city with one primary medic and a handful of field medics. Hoist had volunteered to be stationed in Tarn, First Aid went to Praxus, and Swoop was stationed in Kaon to continue his training under a fully trained seeker medic while Ratchet and Wheeljack staked claim on Iacon. One of the main reasons Wheeljack and Ratchet were quick to claim Iacon for Ratchet's clinic was because of the central Iacon tower's layout. Ratchet's clinic was three floors down from the landing pad, and two floors down from him was the main Autobot laboratory where Wheeljack worked and where he and his mate were still being studied on and off by Perceptor and Skyfire. Nowadays, however, the majority of the scientists' attention was on Ratchet himself.

True to his word, almost a year ago, Ratchet willingly submitted himself to Wheeljack and Hound to host a pod for them, and every orn since, they learned more and more about the carrying process. It took Ratchet nearly two months to grow accustomed to feeling the pod inside him, but once he had, he found it to be much less harrowing than he originally thought. It confirmed his original theory that if the host was _willing_ , the entire hosting process was quite benign. The main difference, at least insofar as he could determine from asking non-cuculid mechs who had carried regular sparklings, was that the pressure of the developing mechlet's presence was in his body rather than in his spark chamber. Even the pod's feelers used to sustain itself from Ratchet's systems were barely noticeable after the first month or so. It had been ten months, and Ratchet had yet to notice much of an increase in the energy and fuel the pod siphoned even as it grew noticeably larger inside him. At no point so far had it indicated that simply carrying it would ever put the host in danger.

The greatest discovery they made, however, had been during the implantation process. Ratchet had fully expected to be forced into silence once more when he, Hound, and Wheeljack shared the necessary spark energy to fuel the podling's development. When he awakened cradled between the two mechs after they were all finished, Ratchet found that he remembered everything. Even more to his shock had been when one of them asked him about how he was and he was able to talk about how it felt and fully answer any questions involving the process and the pod itself. The differences between this implantation and the original were still being studied, and Ratchet knew none of them, least of all Wheeljack, would rest until they knew what he and Hound did differently or simply what was different about the circumstances to create such a positive outcome.

Ratchet had high hopes that they would eventually understand it - it might take another implantation, but he doubted anyone involved would complain about having a second podling running around, least of all Hound and Wheeljack themselves.

"Comm me once you know when tomorrow," Hound responded. "I might be able to be there this time." He grinned. "I'm jealous 'Jack gets to see it a lot more than I do."

"Get rid of my Italian presidents, and I'll let you look at it all you like." Ratchet moved to start organizing the pile of tools he had been putting off all orn only to pause when he noticed movement at the entrance to the medbay, and his optics flickered in surprise as four mechs entered who he had not seen for years.

The Constructicons had been among those who defected and hid during the collapse of the Decepticon empire. Rather than choose sides and join the infighting, all six simply vanished, and hidden they remained until five years into peace and the reconstruction when they finally slowly approached the _Ark_ , by now minimally staffed, and inquired as to what they missed. Once they were taken back to Cybertron, they were tried just like their fellow Decepticons and sentenced to labor work to aid with the remaining reconstruction. The main difference between the other Decepticons' sentencing and the Constructicons' was that rebuilding Cybertron was exactly what they _wanted_ to do, so to them, it was less punishment and more like unpaid overtime.

Their trial and subsequent assignment to Vos, one of the most heavily damaged cities and one which was still undergoing severe repairs, had been the last time Ratchet saw them. They did not require medical attention most of the time as, between the six of them, they had enough medical knowledge to treat themselves. It was one reason why they were sent to Vos - they worked off their parole in both the reconstruction as well as medically treating injured workers. Even if they had earned enough time off to leave the city, Ratchet could not fathom why they were here now, even just four of them - Ratchet assumed Long Haul and Mixmaster had stayed behind in case anyone in Vos needed a medic, but that still left the question of the other four Constructicons' presence.

"Hi?" the white medic spoke, his confusion evident as he watched the Constructicons spread out a little. Scavenger timidly stepped over to Wheeljack, and Bonecrusher approached Hound while Hook and Scrapper moved toward Ratchet.

"I hope we aren't intruding," Scrapper spoke. "This was the first chance we've had to come here, and the schedule showed you were in a lull."

Hook continued for him, "We just didn't know when we'd have another chance to let them mingle with their kind, and Scavenger's been annoying us about coming here for years."

Ratchet frowned. "What are you talking...about..." He trailed off as he glanced to the two Constructicons who had separated from the group, and his optics brightened as he understood. The way Wheeljack stared in shock at Scavenger and Hound gaped at Bonecrusher said it all. Ratchet's gaze shot back to Hook and Scrapper. "They're...?!"

Scrapper nodded. "We've kept them hidden," he explained. "It wasn't that difficult since the rest of us are either scientifically or medically trained. Between the four of us, we were able to keep their sparks under control so no one ever suspected anything."

"It was only because we heard of Hound and Wheeljack and your work towards their acceptance that Scavenger and Bonecrusher felt safe coming forward," Hook stated. "When we heard that you were willingly hosting for them as well, Scavenger got _particularly_ annoying about finding the time to come. They're willing to take part in the research, if they're needed." He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to his two fellow Constructicons. "They're also willing to announce what they are given the acceptance your pair has found. They just wanted to let you, Hound, and Wheeljack know first."

Ratchet tilted his head, intrigued by Hook's choice in wording. "You keep saying 'they'," he pointed out. "You two aren't...?"

Scrapper shook his head as he answered, "No, no - just these two. The other four of us are regular mechs."

The edge of Hook's mouth turned up in a wry half-grin. "Crystal City had a real problem with them before the war. I was Scavenger's host. Mixmaster is Bonecrusher's. We...coped a lot better than most, possibly because we had Scrapper and Long Haul to help us recover and later raise them."

Ratchet looked back to the four mechs in question and watched as they talked animatedly, Wheeljack and Hound's excitement nearly palpable. He, too, felt excited at this discovery. The Autobots had hoped that by being open about accepting the two cuculids that it might coax out of hiding any who still lived after the war, but no one, least of all Hound and Wheeljack themselves, were willing to raise their hopes that any of their kind still remained, not after active attempts to eradicate them during the Golden Age, a seemingly endless war which ravaged their entire planet, and the utter collapse of the Decepticon regime which claimed even more lives. The chances were astronomical, but there they were.

Primus truly did have an odd sense of humor, and thankfully, it was not always sadistic.

As he, Hook, and Scrapper watched the four excitedly chattering cuculids, a thought crossed Ratchet's mind, and he reached up to stroke his chin in contemplation. After a klik, he spoke, "You know." The two Constructicons turned their attention to him. "I could probably get Swoop transferred to Vos. His training's progressed enough that he could do with some experience working on his own with some junior medics under him. And with him taking over the Vos clinic, that would free the six of you to come here." Ratchet nodded to the four mechs. "Perceptor and Skyfire would love the chance to compare our information on Hound and Wheeljack against another pair, and I'm sure Hound and Wheeljack would love the chance to get with Scavenger and Bonecrusher more often. Plus, I know Grapple is getting ready to start reconstruction of the Academies, so I'm certain he could use the help. It would count toward your labor cycles." He paused for a nanoklik before finishing, "And considering my current condition, I wouldn't say 'no' to some insight regarding carrying a pod to term, if you'd be willing to provide it."

He finally tore his gaze from the two - _two_ \- cuculid pairs to glance to Hook and Scrapper who were looking at one another, clearly considering his proposal. After a klik, Scrapper replied, "We'd need to discuss this with Mixmaster and Long Haul as well, but..." He turned to look to Ratchet again as Hook nodded. "I believe everyone would like that."

Ratchet clapped his hands together and grinned. "Well, then, let's head down to the lab and formally introduce everybody. Skyfire's going to lay an egg when he hears about this."

As the seven mechs made their way out of the clinic and Ratchet paused long enough to set his communicator to notify him if someone entered and needed him, the white medic thought back on the extraordinary series of events which culminated in this outstanding and unexpected conclusion. It was almost dizzying to think of the great number of ways every single event could have gone wrong, dating all the way back to when Hound and Wheeljack were just podlings themselves. If they had never met that orn in Praxus, if Wheeljack had not chosen to study science and medicine, if someone other than Ratchet had stepped into the hangar that fateful night, if the Autobots had chosen to simply exile them rather than let them explain, if they had not tried to understand one another - the number of possible pathways and the number of negative ways the two cuculids' story could have progressed or ended was nearly unfathomable.

But they found the right path - they all had. They found it and did not deviate.

Ratchet often wondered at the odd way the universe worked. Had everything that happened over the last decade truly been all part of Primus' plan, or had he simply decided to give them a nudge and see where they went? Ratchet knew they would never know for certain, nor did they have any way of knowing what the future held. All he could do - all _any_ of them could do - was keep walking down the path they were traveling. The path was a long one, and there were bound to be more twists, turns, and holes, but for once, none of them were alone anymore in traversing the hazards. The monsters in the shadows were no longer, and no one needed to endure the darkness by himself anymore.

That knowledge, if nothing else, finally gave Ratchet the assurance he needed that he - they - would all be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much, those of you who stuck with this story to the end. I hope you enjoyed it. Some of you may recognize the basic premise as [one from the kink meme](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/10462.html?thread=9257694#t9257694). I take no credit for that idea - I just played in the sandbox, and I hope the original poster likes my spin on his/her prompt even though it didn't follow it exactly and there was no smut.
> 
> Thank you again for reading!


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